


Keep Your Friends Close and Your Enemies Ten Feet from the Pack

by JaneOfCakes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roller Derby, Alternate Universe - Sherlock (TV) Fusion, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Peril, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Shower Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 134,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22950163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneOfCakes/pseuds/JaneOfCakes
Summary: Instead of being the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes is the world's best roller derby coach. Mrs. Hudson is the team's owner and Greg Lestrade is the general manager. It's a new season, the team needs a new doctor and Sherlock is about to meet Dr. John Watson. Before they know it, the two are thrown headlong into a mystery and must work together to find the culprit.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 208
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Everyone!! I'm back again and full of beans! I think I'm going to say that every time I return from the depths of my writing desk. It's such a fun line. 
> 
> Yes, Jane of Cakes is back with another work and I really hope you all like it. It's my first AU and I'm nervous as hell to put it out there. I just keep hoping it isn't complete rubbish. As the quick description says, our boys are in the roller derby racket for this one. It is born out of my joining the local roller derby team in 2018. I love it. Unfortunately, my flipping back decided it was time to die and I had to stop skating, but not before giving myself a derby name. Say hello to Pepto Dismal. Hahahahaha!! I may not be able to skate, but I still keep score at bouts, which I love almost as much.
> 
> Anyway, I'm going to start us out with some key terms mentioned in this chapter. I'll continue to add more in coming chapters as needed. 
> 
> Terms:  
> Pack - the largest group of blockers from both teams skating within ten feet of each other.  
> Blocker - a skater who tries to prevent the jammer from skating around the track and scoring points.  
> Jammer - the skater who skates around the track and aims to pass all of the blockers on the opposite team. A point is scored for each opposing team blocker the jammer passes.  
> Lead jammer - the jammer who breaks through the pack first (no points are scored on the initial break through. The lead jammer controls the jam and can call it off at any time, unless in the penalty box.  
> Jam - or round. Each jam lasts a maximum of two minutes, if the lead jammer does not call it off. Blockers and jammers may be swapped out in between each jam.  
> Quads - roller skates with four wheels.
> 
> There you go. I hope you enjoy it!

_Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality. Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see._

_\--Queen, Bohemian Rhapsody_

Sharp grey eyes study the five skaters as they race around the track. Wheels glide smoothly over concrete, one leg crossing over the other on the straight aways, knees bent to keep low around the turns. Bodies bent slightly at the waist and spines arched with shoulders back in perfect derby stance. They make each pass with ease and undeniable focus. Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody plays loudly from a portable speaker laying in the center of the track. A short woman off skates stands next to it with a timer, shouting out every minute as each one ticks away. The only other sounds that interrupt Freddie’s voice are the occasional cries of 5, 10, 15, as well as shouts of encouragement from the stationary skaters positioned around the inside of the track as they count their teammate’s laps.

The dark curls that frame his face flutter artfully in the cool breeze created by the fast-moving skaters not twenty feet in front of him. He watches yet not seeing at all, his mind visualizing strategies and scoring tactics playing out on the track before him.

_Come into the pack signalling lane one, a quick flick of the wrist indicating the real plan and jetting to three at the last second. Hit, spin, shove and twist, roll around the pack to one if necessary and break through._

A few shouts of support start from the group of skaters working on core exercises on the outer left side of the track. More join in, along with the group doing squats on the right side, just after the timer yells one minute. As the time ticks down, Freddie and crew are all but drown out by the voices of a team joined in a common goal. Training is key. Training together, helping each teammate reach for something better - one more lap, skimming off one more second, slipping past for one more point - **that** is a true team. A team of equals, partners. That is what he has always worked toward and that emphasis has made his team unique.

_Increase speed just before reaching the pack, nod to a blocker, signal with a fist. The blocker slams into an opposing blocker as the jammer shoots by and crashes into the pack, ideally knocking the most immediate blocker to the ground and rocketing through._

His eyes narrow as he considers his jammers to determine which ones fit with each strategy. He shuffles through individual tactics and assigns the ones that play directly to each woman’s strengths and personality. All of this is easy for him because he is a master at reading people and knowing what he shouldn’t know with only a look or two. He reads every strength and weakness after observing two trips around the track. He can see everything about one’s personal life as well, but turns that part of his brain off with the team so as to avoid invading their privacy. Mutual respect is also important in a successful team.

His eyes slip closed as he carefully analyzes each strategy against each jammer. His hands steepled with fingertips just touching his lips, every sound filling the stadium fading away as he enters his mind palace. This is the place where all the information is stored and every skill will match up with his ideas.

  * Witch Hazel, a jammer of such an elusive nature that blockers scarcely realize she is bumping against them before she has slipped past, as though she has cast a spell.
  * The Woman, who sidles up and presses herself on blockers with more weight than her lithe body would dictate. Then she twists and dodges with unexpected speed, bouncing from one blocker to another as she twirls around the pack, delivering hit after hit as she goes.
  * Trixie Belt’em, one of their most aggressive and foul-mouthed skaters, uses wider hips to her advantage. Slamming into anyone in her way, she knocks women to the floor with one powerful whack.
  * Similarly, Bloody Mary breaks through the pack to earn lead jammer nearly every time and pumps her legs all the way around the track. She comes in hot and slams into the blocker she has deemed the weakest link. She is seldom mistaken.
  * Finally, their most skilled jammer and captain, Mollycious Intent embodies all the skills of her fellow jammers. Her speed and power are equally measured to her quick dodges and sharp turns. She comes in hot only to stop on a dime and prance her way around the pack on her toe stops. Just as steady on the stops as on wheels, she still delivers precise blows to the opposition, but saves the real power for the most critical hits. 



Molly’s strategy and intellect closely match that of their coach, making them a perfect force to lead the team to its place as number one in the nation. It is a title the Detroit Rock City Rollers once held for ten years from the late 1970s into the 1980s. One the team’s owner never thought they would see again after The Fall. One they regained when they were revolutionized by a budding young coach called Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock shuffles his feet as he thinks, visualizes each play and all possible outcomes. His feet slide back and forth easily on his quads. Sherlock often dons his own workout gear and black skates for practice. He prefers to skate with the ladies rather than lord over them from the sidelines, providing critiques like most coaches. But he has always been unconventional. His unusual ideas and knowledge of the sport factored heavily into the Rock City comeback after a 23 year slump. In the 49 years since the inception of the Detroit Rock City Rollers, there had never been such a coach and there is still no other coach like him in all of the league.

“Coach!”

A loud voice echoes through the stadium and pulls him from his thoughts. Sherlock’s eyes fly open to see the skaters loitering around the track and drinking from their water bottles. The music was turned off after the last workout rotation and no longer blares across the track, marking the beginning of drills. Sherlock typically leads the drills and scrimmages, but the ladies are more than capable of regulating themselves when he is pulled away. Or delves too far into his mind palace, as the case may be.

“Hey, Coach!” Harry ‘HardOn Skates’ Dewhurst calls from the track. He shifts his gaze to her in response. “You know your phone is ringing, right? Turned up the volume so you wouldn’t miss a call from Lestrade, wasn’t it?

Sherlock studies her knowing smirk and narrows his eyes as the ring of his phone finally reaches his ears and the doors to the strategy wing in his mind palace close. He pulls it from his pocket and sees the name Greg Lestrade, general manager of the team in bright digital lettering. He turns and looks back at the ladies.

“Twenty laps for being a smartass,” he announces.

“My pleasure, Captain,” Harry salutes and skates to the outside edge of the track with a broad grin on her face.

“Molly.”

“Sherlock?”

“Get started with drills.”

“Got it.”

Sherlock turns his head to face away from the track, glancing at the clock. He puts the phone to his ear.

“Really, Lestrade,” Sherlock begins with a smile on his face and an exaggerated tone of irritation in his voice, “I cannot maintain any level of success if you continue to interrupt practices.”

“She’s done it again,” Greg replies, ignoring the jibe and deathly serious.

“No,” Sherlock’s eyes are wide.

“She hired a doctor she met at the conference,” Greg pauses, hoping Sherlock will not start shouting like last time. However, this is almost worse. It is never good when the man goes quiet. Greg bites his lip and goes on. “He starts on Thursday.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, his fingers resting precisely on the two little wrinkles that traverse the top of his nose when he furrows his brow. He sighs in both frustration and anger.

“For god sake,” Sherlock mutters. He opens his eyes and looks toward the team, catching Molly’s eye almost immediately. “I’ll be back.”

“Got it,” she replies with a nod.

Without a thought to his footwear or the floors, Sherlock skates from his position near the track and across the stadium to the exit closest to the team offices. Once up the elevator and in the hall, he continues to skate along the fairly flat carpeting until he bursts into Greg’s office. It shouldn’t take the man by surprise because he has stormed the office before, not to mention they were just speaking on the phone, but somehow it does and Greg jumps slightly when Sherlock rolls in. Greg rests his elbows on his desk and tilts his head warily to watch the wheeled man pace back and forth before him.

“What the hell is she doing, Greg?” Sherlock is already asking. “Did she learn nothing from the disaster that was Phillip Anderson?”

“I know, Sherlock. I know.”

“You gave me every assurance that this would **not** happen again.”

“Sherlock,” Greg replies sternly, gesturing at the man, who finally comes to a stop directly in front of the desk, “need I remind you that Martha Hudson owns the team? She can hire anyone she likes.”

“Yes, of course she can,” Sherlock scowls impatiently, “but I expected to be consulted first.”

“Honestly,” Greg runs a hand through his salt and pepper hair, shaking his head in exasperation, “I did too. But she obviously didn’t. I just got off the phone with her. She’s on her way here and thinks this doctor is the answer to our troubles. We can’t play without a team doctor and the season is about to start.“

“I am well aware of that. Thank you,” Sherlock answers haughtily. “What do you know about him?”

“His name is John Watson.”

Sherlock stares at him, expectant and annoyed. He even jerks his head forward to punctuate the unspoken addition. _Well?_

“That’s it,” Greg shrugs.

“Oh my god,” he rolls his eyes before fixing Greg with a glare and pointing an accusatory finger. “We must find out all we can. If he touches anyone on the team…”

“I’m sure Martha took that into consideration when she hired him, Sherlock. No one wants another situation like Anderson. We can thank him for opening all our eyes, the bastard.”

There is a light rap on the office door and in walks the woman of the hour, Mrs. Martha Hudson. With a smile on her face, she lets the door swing wide before turning to close it with a solid click. When she faces them again, it is with a motherly smile.

Mrs. Hudson and her husband founded the Detroit Rock City Rollers in 1970. By ‘78, the team was at the top of its game. Money was rolling in and Edward Hudson didn’t always use it for the best, or even legal, exploits. In spite of her own moral principles, Mrs. Hudson generally looked the other way because her focus was on the skaters. She made sure they had whatever they needed and even muscled men out of the organization if they proved to be disrespectful in any way. As it turned out, she should have extended the same treatment to her husband.

The dream, and marriage, ended in 1987 when Mr. Hudson was arrested for larceny, embezzlement, drug and sex trafficking, and murder. Some of his crimes were directly related to the team and some not. For her part, Mrs. Hudson testified against him and sealed his fate with a smile on her face. After her husband’s conviction, Mrs. Hudson spent the next six years doing everything in her power to rid Rock City of disgrace. She fired everyone on staff and dismissed every team member proven to be willingly involved. With the rubbish cleared out, she rebuilt from the ground up. She slowly re-established her own reputation and the team’s along with it. When she finished what had once seemed impossible, she was finally in a position to attract talented newcomers again. One such young upstart was Gregory Lestrade.

Greg was the first to come into the fold as an expert and honest general manager. He revolutionized every aspect of team business, making it professional and accountable once again. Together, he and Mrs. Hudson hired a most accomplished staff for the team to depend upon. It was his demeanor more than his experience that made Mrs. Hudson trust his judgement implicitly, in spite of being roughly 25 years her junior.

“Goodness, boys, settle down, settle down,” she clucks. “I could hear you all the way down the hall.”

“That, Mrs. Hudson, is a boldfaced lie,” Sherlock snaps, “but if you’d like to hear my objections to this farce at full volume I will be happy to accommodate.”

“Sherlock!” Greg rises from his chair and glares at the taller man. He is not at all surprised at the insubordination, nor is Mrs. Hudson - Sherlock Holmes has spoken his mind since day one - but he is typically more diplomatic with the team’s owner.

Sherlock keeps his icy gaze on the older woman, pointedly ignoring Greg. Mrs. Hudson herself just looks at them both fondly. She has never made a secret of the fact that she views them as the sons she never had. Greg holds the place of firstborn - polite, responsible, authoritative. Sherlock is the little brother who will always be quietly satisfied that he is taller. He is just as responsible and an excellent coach, but is also petulant, disagreeable and a bit of a shit. Both men are friendly and talented and won over Mrs. Hudson nearly the moment she met them. Martha is nothing if not an excellent judge of character. It’s like a sixth sense and she prides herself on it, so how she failed to notice Anderson’s complete lack of ethics is beyond her.

“Sherlock,” she begins in a motherly, but stern tone, “surely you trust me to make sure nothing like Anderson ever happens again.”

“I did, yes,” he straightens to his full height, which with the skates is impressive, “until you hired someone to replace him on a whim.”

“Sherlock,” Greg growls in warning.

“It wasn’t a whim, dear. John Watson is a good and honorable man, and an excellent doctor,” Mrs. Hudson answers, smile never faltering.

“Well, we are delighted to hear that. Aren’t you delighted, Greg?” he answers sarcastically, finally glancing at the GM and ignoring his incredulous frown. “Has this man worked in derby before you so graciously added him to our ranks?”

“No.”

“Then why, may I ask, was he at the conference? Trolling for new victims?”

“That’s enough!” Greg slams his fist on the desk. The room is silent, all attention on him. “Why do I always find myself reminding you that, while your input is very important, Mrs. Hudson owns this team. She does **not** have to explain herself to you.”

“It’s all right, Greg,” Mrs. Hudson says easily. “I expected it. I expected you’d both be angry I didn’t put it up for discussion, but I knew John Watson was the doctor for our team as soon as we were introduced. Spending so much time with him at the conference only sealed the deal.”

“Good, good,” some of the edge fades from Greg’s voice and he eyes the other two as he continues. “Why don’t we all have a seat, shall we? Talk like civilized adults. I’m sure Sherlock wants to know more about Dr. Watson as much as I do, if he can behave himself.”

Sherlock glares daggers at him and Greg is certain the man is considering a full-on strop. He watches Sherlock with a hard, commanding and unrelenting gaze. Finally, the taller man sighs and grabs the small chair tucked next to a filing cabinet, leaving the more comfortable and prominent one for Mrs. Hudson.

“Fine,” he mutters and sits with a thunk.

“Thank you,” Greg replies, some tension seeping from his body. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Thank you, Greg,” she smiles, taking a seat. Greg follows suit. “We met on the morning of the second day. Charles Griffin and I got to breakfast late and he was sitting at a table on his own.”

“Griffy introduced you then?” Greg asks with interest.

“Yes. He’s known John for years. Charles was his advisor in medical school.”

“In London?”

“Yes, of course.”

Greg’s eyes dart to meet Sherlock’s. The thin man is on the edge of his seat, elbows perched on his knees and fingers joined beneath his chin. The position makes his limbs look impossibly long. The skates on his feet don’t help either. Unable to stop himself, Greg rolls his eyes and returns his gaze to Mrs. Hudson.

“So he’s a surgeon then,” Sherlock speculates, but it is more of a statement than a question.

“Since he graduated,” Mrs. Hudson agrees, clearly enjoying the conversation. “Charles resigned shortly thereafter and relocated to the United States for the derby. They kept making jokes about John driving him out of the university with his shenanigans.”

“He’s been a surgeon in London for ten years,” Sherlock states and Greg’s eyes dart to him again. How the hell would he know that? But Greg doesn’t have much time to wonder before Mrs. Hudson continues.

“Oh, longer than that, dear,” she laughs. “How do they say it over there? He’s ‘bloody brilliant’?”

“He graduated in record time.”

“A full three years ahead of schedule,” she grins like any proud mother would. “Seems he has the same head for medicine that you have for observation.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and sparkle with intrigue. Neither Mrs. Hudson nor Greg has ever seen him so invested in a person who wasn’t on wheels. Mrs. Hudson snickers.

“Surprised, dear? I do listen to your rants, you know. ‘You see, but do not observe’. I’m excited to see if you meet your match in him.”

She has a mischievous gleam in her eye. If she was anyone else, Sherlock would be in a rage, but Mrs. Hudson has always been different. He is well aware she thinks of him as a son and, with his own parents dead for nearly five years, he is inclined to think of her as a sort of surrogate mother. He has known her for a long time and, truth be told, trusts her to a fault. The decision to hire Anderson was one that had to be made quickly. Deadlines were looming and they wouldn’t have been allowed to compete for nearly an entire season without a team doctor. By the time they learned what he was doing to one of the ladies, they were in the championships and the season was almost over. Mrs. Hudson fired him on the spot, in spite of potential disqualification. After her husband’s legacy, maintaining a high level of professionalism and strict adherence to rules, both the league’s and her own, were of the utmost importance. She also had the police outside her door to arrest him as soon as he left the room.

“John and I spent the rest of the conference together,” Mrs. Hudson is saying when Sherlock tables his thoughts and returns to the conversation. “It was one of the best conferences I’ve attended, I must say. He is very genuine and honest, and very friendly. I think you will both like him once you meet him.”

“I can’t deny that Griffy vouching for him doesn’t lend credence to that, but I would like to have met him first,” Greg says carefully. “Asked him some of my own questions. Maybe had the opportunity to factor into the decision.”

“I know, Greg, I know,” she shakes her head. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

“More to Greg’s point,” Sherlock finally speaks again, “what guarantee do we have that this Watson won’t show the same disregard for ethics that Anderson did?”

“Oh, no, no, no. He would never do anything like that,” she shakes her head emphatically.

“Why not? He isn’t aged.”

“Sherlock!” Greg’s voice is quiet, but dangerous.

“He’s your age, dear,” Mrs. Hudson ignores both men and what should be an insulting remark on her advanced age. Sherlock continues to frown.

“Is he gay?”

“SHERLOCK HOLMES.”

The room is deathly silent. Mrs. Hudson has risen from her chair and crowded forward to glower down at Sherlock. There aren’t many people in the stadium who are taller than Sherlock and none when he has skates on, so when the rare opportunity to use height against him arises, everyone takes it. 

“You are impetuous and driven,” Mrs. Hudson’s tone and expression are stern. Greg can’t help but think of his mother’s face during what she used to call Come to Jesus moments. “It is what makes you the best coach I have ever seen. But sometimes you’re an asshole.”

Greg’s torso lurches forward just a bit, his shoulders hunching as he bites back the bark of laughter threatening to burst from his mouth. He coughs a little, clearing his throat, trying to cover. Sherlock gives him a pointed look, clearly not buying it. Greg recovers quickly and glances from one to the other as they stare each other down.

“Sherlock, we have worked together for a long time. All of us, and we’re used to your flights of fancy. You know I could care less if you act like a spoiled school boy from time to time because, ultimately, you truly do respect everyone associated with this team,” Mrs. Hudson takes a small step back, allowing the man a little breathing room. “But you will not behave this way straight out of the gate. John has done nothing to deserve your suspicion and his credentials are impeccable. Just trust me.”

She puts her hands on her hips, but one is soon on his shoulder. Sherlock stares up at her, weighing her words carefully. He finally dips his chin in a shallow nod.

“Fine,” the word sounds like a curse on his lips, “but I want to see these ‘impeccable’ credentials for myself.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing them as well,” Greg adds.

“Of course!” Mrs. Hudson’s draconian persona melts away and she turns for the door in a flurry. She looks back at them as she opens it. “I’ll have Allie give it to you this afternoon. We’ll talk again then. Oh! I’m late for a lunch with Daniel and Craig.”

She slips out the door, waving and pulling it shut behind. Sherlock purses his lips and turns his head to face Greg, who frowns back at him. The GM holds out a cautioning hand to Sherlock upon seeing his expression.

“Just wait until we see his file, all right.”

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock pushes out of the chair and glides to the door. “I have a practice on.”

“She’s right, you know,” Greg says just as Sherlock’s fingers reach the knob. The coach drops his hand and looks at the ceiling.

“I know,” he replies like a sullen teenager. He meets Greg’s eyes and already knows what he is going to say next. Rolling his own eyes, he blows out a breath that flutters the curls resting on his forehead. “I’ll be nice.”

Greg lets out a huff of breath with a quiet laugh dancing around its edges and Sherlock joins with a small smile. A moment later, he opens the door to leave and Greg briefly stops him again.

“Come to my office this afternoon. Allie will have it to us within the hour,” Greg tells him. He gets a quick nod from Sherlock as he walks out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! I hope the terms helped and that everything was understandable. I've had so much fun writing this fic and hope you all have just as much reading it. I plan to post a new chapter every Friday or, failing that, on each weekend. The story itself is finished, but I'm still typing and editing. Yes, I write it all out instead of composing on my laptop. I'm old school that way and it gives me more opportunities to edit. Anyway, that's the plan and I'll stick to it as much as I can. Some chapters are longer than others.
> 
> As always, feel free to drop a message. Let me know if you have any terminology questions or whatever. I'm always open to constructive comments and am more than happy to reply.
> 
> Until we meet again, let's mull over these questions....  
> 1\. Is Mrs. Hudson right about their new doctor? (I think we all know the answer to that one.)  
> 2\. Will Sherlock play nice when he and John meet?  
> 3\. If he doesn't, how will big brother Greg keep him in line?  
> 4\. Which song lyrics will be featured in the next chapter, I wonder? Any guesses? No, they are not all from Queen, but they do always pertain to the chapter in some way.
> 
> Love, Jane


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is in the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Everyone! It's here and all I can say is, Enter John Watson.  
> What's in store for us now? What's in store for John? Or Sherlock?
> 
> Did I mention last time I intend to post every Friday night? Did I also mention that if I don't make that, it'll be sometime during the weekend? Haha. Just made it this weekend.
> 
> I just want to remind you of a couple of terms:  
> Jammer - the skater who skates around the track and aims to pass all of the blockers on the opposite team. A point is scored for each opposing team blocker the jammer passes.  
> Quads - roller skates with four wheels.
> 
> I think that's all we need. So, without further ado...

_ Welcome to the jungle, we've got fun and games. _

_ \--Guns N' Roses, Welcome to the Jungle _

Sherlock is seated at his desk. Every inch of its surface is covered with papers, books and file folders full of clippings, all on roller derby tactics and strategies. He makes a point of knowing every new maneuver as it is developed, as well as any updates to old ones. Every minute not on the track with the ladies is spent reading and sifting, and then applying his findings to the team. He also formulates his own original moves and plans, demonstrating them to the ladies himself.

Sherlock revolutionized coaching when he joined the staff ten years prior and was the youngest coach of a top national team the league had ever seen. Mrs. Hudson took a huge gamble on him and it paid out in dividends. The team had already been slowly recovering from a long slump, but Sherlock brought them back to life. Within two years, the Rock City Rollers were at the top of their division and then the league, and they haven’t slowed down since.

Sherlock’s approach to coaching had changed everything. At 28, he was only slightly older than most of the ladies and younger than a handful. He quickly gained their respect when he turned up for his first practice in a tee and gym shorts, all geared up in skates and pads. He had clearly had them a long time and had not just purchased them as some inane attempt to relate to the team. His pads were scuffed, as well as the protective covers on the toes of his skates. His helmet bore stickers worn with time. Most of them quotes from movies and literature. All of the skaters noted a sticker that simply read “Number 37”. A reference to a scene from Clerks and the same sticker on captain of the team, Molly Hooper’s helmet. All of them noticed, but no one did more than give one another sideways glances. It was quickly forgotten when Sherlock started warming up with them and doing laps. He wanted to see everyone’s style of skating and skill set those first couple months so he could begin to build the team’s repertoire. He skated with them whenever he had the chance and quickly became ‘one of the ladies’ while still holding the respect a coach deserved. 

Sherlock’s eyes are closed. The tall french doors into his mind palace are open. Each skater has a room from which he can pull files and images, clips of their derby play to mix and match as need be. He watches as his own strategies play out before his mind’s eye. Sherlock stores the information he collects and files it, organizes it so he can access it whenever the need arises. As a result, he knows all and can change from one strategy to a better suited one on the fly, and his coaching methods guarantee that the ladies are prepared for any change of plans.

A light rap on his office door catches Sherlock’s attention. He closes his mind palace and opens his eyes. Reaching for a bottle of water and twisting off the cap, he grants entry in a loud voice. The wide door swings open to reveal Molly Hooper, dressed for afternoon practice in a pair of spandex shorts and a team tank. Pads cover her elbows and knees, but helmet and skates are missing. She steps into the room, closing the door behind and comes to stand before his desk with her hands on her hips.

“You look like you haven’t moved a muscle,” she narrows her eyes. “You did eat lunch.”

It’s not a question. Sherlock meets her gaze and doesn’t bother to lie, merely shrugging in response. Molly shakes her head, snaps the bottle from his grasp and takes a drink as she sits in the chair across the desk from him. Producing a banana she must have tucked in the waistband of her shorts, she throws it at him and he catches it with a start.

“You’re eating it on the way to practice,” she tells him sternly and then smiles fondly. “So what are you plotting this time?”

“Just working out some new strategies,” he answers with a grin. “I’d like to develop a formula for calculating the amount of force required to knock over any given blocker. Once Trixie and Mary can do it easily, the three of us can train the others to do the same and more jammers will have the confidence to come in hot.”

“Not everyone can do math in a split second, love.”

“They can if the formula is simple enough,” he leans forward in his chair with a sparkle in his eye. “I just need to pair it down to the most essential factors.”

“Well, if anyone can do it, it’s you,” Molly hands him the water bottle.

“Thank you for your confidence,” he says around the bottle as he takes a drink. “Everyone ready?”

“More or less,” she watches while he turns his chair to reach a shining silver whistle dangling from a hook on the wall. Once its woven navy blue cord hangs around his neck, Sherlock hunches forward to pull on a pair of bright green ankle socks. His office has basically been a barefoot zone since day one. The cool flooring on the soles helps clear his mind and relax the muscles in his body. It’s better for him than any massage. He glances at Molly while he works.

“Something on your mind, Molls?” he asks, seeing the thoughtful concern in her expression. Molly takes a deep breath and considers her words carefully.

“This new doctor,” she begins, biting her lip.

“Dr. Watson,” Sherlock supplies.

“What do you know about him?”

“He is nothing like Anderson,” Sherlock sits up and meets her eyes. “He studied in London and his references are very impressive. They all speak highly of him, including Griffy.”

“I know all that,” she says and then hesitates. “Will you do it when you meet him?”

“Molly, you know I don’t deduce anyone who is a part of this team.”

“Please.”

Sherlock closes his mouth abruptly, covering his upper lip with his lower and retracting it again. He stares at Molly for a long moment and neither of them makes a sound. She knows exactly what she is asking him to do and knows that he can never refuse her anything. He promised Greg he would, how did he phrase it, ‘only use his powers for good’? The problem is Sherlock wants to be sure Watson won’t be Anderson all over again. Surely that is adequate reason to invade this man’s privacy, especially if he chooses to target any of the ladies.

“You can trust that I will do everything in my power to protect you and the other ladies.”

“I know, Sherlock, I know you will,” the team captain assures him, but still wears a face of concern. “And I know you don’t do it to anyone with Rock City, but I thought this might be an exception.”

Sherlock looks at her and his expression softens. He stands and moves around the desk, placing a hand on hers where she grips the armrest.

“I’ll take care of it, Molly,” he promises. “Mrs. Hudson spent the conference with him and trusts him implicitly. But yes, he will have to pass under my own scrutiny.”

They share a look for several seconds, both reading the other’s intentions. The tension around Molly’s eyes begins to ease. She has known Sherlock for far too long to doubt the meaning of his words. With a smile on her face, she pops up out of the chair and kisses his cheek.

“Thanks, love,” she says warmly.

“You’re welcome,” he turns slightly and offers his arm. “Shall we go?”

Molly slips her arm in his and they head for the track.

***

Three hours later and they are racing around the track, careening toward the other eight skaters who are poised to stop them. Other members of the team stand outside the track, cheering and egging them on. It had been an intense practice, starting with drills and moving straight to hardcore scrimmaging. Knowing the practice was coming to an end, the ladies all insisted Molly and Sherlock try to outscore each other for a little fun. Sherlock only gave in when Molly joined in the cajoling. He may skate with them, but seldom scrimmages. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had.

With a smile on his face, Sherlock steps one foot over the other as he comes to the pack at high speed. Molly is right on his heels, an excited grin shining brightly on her face. Sherlock’s eyes dart toward Molly before meeting those of his blocker. With the slightest of nods, he signals her, and the two fingers he holds covertly at his side reveal his plan. She squeezes the arms of the other two blockers and the stage is set.

Just as Sherlock reaches the pack, BatR cuts out of position to crowd an opposing blocker to the boundary line. Since they all know their own strategies, the others recognize the move immediately.

“Shit!” Mary cries. “Bob’s your uncle!”

She and her teammates try to adjust, but it is too late. Hella and HardOn pounce on the other blockers, and The Woman rushes Molly. With women crashing into one another all around, Sherlock gracefully cuts inside and through easily. He emerges on the other side of the pack without so much as a touch, another four points to his name while Molly remains behind, held fast by The Woman and Hella.

Sherlock’s smile grows as he glides around the track, filing that one away for future bouts. That is when Witch Hazel catches his eyes from track side.

“Coach! Coach!” she calls, holding his cell phone aloft. “It’s Lestrade!”

Sherlock slows his pace and hops off the track to stand next to her. He motions for her to take his place and she jumps in. Molly, having broken free of the pack, calls out in welcome when Witch Hazel enters and they speed toward the pack together.

“Greg,” Sherlock greets a little breathlessly, bringing the phone to his ear, but has little chance to say another word before the man’s voice whispers the message.

“He’s in the stadium. Mrs. Hudson is touring him around, but she’s leaving the track and team to us. They’re heading for my office.”

“I’m on my way,” Sherlock ends the call and blows his whistle sharply. The cheers die down swiftly and the action stops, soon all eyes are on him. “Our new doctor is here. I’ll bring him down in about an hour. Get cleaned up and come back here to meet him. Great practice.”

He skates onto the track again. Every skater heads toward him until the whole team is clustered into a tight jumble of sweaty bodies and smiling faces. Each stretches out one arm into the center and some even grab the hand of a teammate within reach.

“Take us home, Groot,” Sherlock smiles at the skater across from him as he takes her hand. Her returning grin is nothing less than spectacular.

“I am Groot!” she chants quickly instead of the numbers 1, 2, 3. No one is at all phased as they yell a jovial ‘DRC Woo!’.

When the group breaks, Sherlock turns to head for Greg’s office, but a strong hand grips his shoulder lightly and then lets go. He swivels his head to see their most infamous duo. Not only are HardOn Skates and Hell On Wheels a couple, they are also the team’s die-hard jokesters.

“You gonna meet Ph.D. like that, Coach?” Hella asks with an appreciative look at his lean, sweaty frame. HardOn puckers her lips in feigned lust, letting out a quiet ‘ooo’.

“If he can’t handle this, he’ll never make it on this team,” he replies with a sassy shake of his ass.

“Oh-ho!” Hella laughs as everyone joins in with whistles and catcalls.

“Go get him, Coach,” HardOn chuckles with a wink.

Sherlock laughs and skates out of the arena for the elevators.

When he arrives at the door to Greg’s office he can tell Dr. Watson is already there. Judging from Greg’s steady stream of words, Mrs. Hudson has already left. Perfect timing as far as Sherlock is concerned. Certain questions will go far better without a scolding mother in the mix. Sherlock stands still for a moment and listens. Greg is telling Watson about the team as it stands now, which means he got through its history in record time (unlikely) or Mrs. Hudson already did (clearly). They were together for most of the conference with nothing to do but go to boring seminars and talk to one another. God, who knows what she told him. Watson probably knows her life story, and all the ladies’ too. And Greg, Mike, Daniel, Craig...shit. And Sherlock’s too. Mrs. Hudson thinks of him as a son and is prone to over-sharing. Sherlock only knows what was in Watson’s file (admittedly impressive), what Griffy and other references told him (also impressive), and what he could find online (again, impressive). The man’s past seems to be free of misdeeds and his closets of skeletons. He appears to be squeaky clean, but that isn’t going to stop Sherlock from asking the hard questions and doing it directly.

Straightening his spine and relaxing his shoulders, Sherlock raps lightly on the office door. Greg’s voice rings out, cool and clear (comfortable, interesting) granting Sherlock entrance. Greg nods in his direction and the short, blonde man sitting in the chair turns to look at the coach. 

Sherlock’s heart stops.

“Sherlock, come in,” Greg says in a business-like, but friendly tone. He turns back to the doctor. “This is our coach, Sherlock Holmes.”

The man, who is standing now, walks the short distance to stand before Sherlock. His hand is outstretched and he wears a bright smile on his face.

“Sherlock,” Greg continues, “Dr. John Watson.”

The most beautiful smile.

“Hello.”

God, his voice is lovely and he still has a light accent after his two years in the States.

“Please call me John,” he shakes Sherlock’s hand and his hand is so warm and soft. Sherlock swallows hard and mumbles a respectable greeting, feeling like an utter idiot. Something he needs to stop this minute. He needs to get a hold of himself, for god sake. He is a grown man and a professional. He needs to act the part, especially in the presence of this disarming man. 

But god, he is gorgeous. Short, sandy blonde locks that compliment his tanned skin, a definite hallmark of living in the sun. His file read that he abruptly pulled up stakes in London to move to California of all places. He had accepted a position as head physician for a major league hockey team. Now he has moved Detroit and will have to adjust to another very different climate. Sherlock cannot help but wonder how Watson will like the cold temperatures and snow once the winter months come.

The man certainly is fit. Sherlock can see that plainly, even under a dark grey suit and baby blue shirt that compliments his dark blue eyes. Was that planned or did Watson stumble into it? He does not wear a tie, the top two shirt buttons undone and collar parted artfully at his throat. Jesus Christ, that throat. Its soft angles and strong muscles beneath sun-kissed skin, and Watson has not maintained his physique with hours in the gym. No, nothing so mundane. Instead it is...surfing. Oh, now that **is** interesting.

“Well,” the doctor says, stepping back a bit, “now that you’re here, I imagine you both have questions. Why don’t we all have a seat?”

Sherlock cocks a brow as he and Watson sit in the two chairs before Greg’s desk. He angles his in Watson’s direction and the doctor mirrors the action. The man is obviously very confident, almost cheeky, inviting Greg to sit in his own office. Is it because he knows he is in no danger of losing the job since Mrs. Hudson is so taken with him or is this simply his manner? Sherlock narrows his eyes as Greg begins to speak. He sees no smugness in Watson’s expression, only friendliness and interest.

“Certainly. Dr Watson was just telling me about his time with the Ducks,” Greg sounds conversational. Sherlock knows in an instant that while Greg is always agreeable with new people, Watson has already begun to win him over. The coach’s hackles are raised. He has just become the last line of defense. He must protect the ladies at all cost and that means he cannot be charmed.

“Has he now?” Sherlock studies the doctor with sharp eyes. “Tell me then, Doctor, why does a respected, established surgeon leave London for a position as a physician over an all male hockey team?”

Sherlock’s words are dripping with innuendo and suspicion. Greg closes his eyes and fights the urge to face palm. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Sherlock never makes anything easy. To his credit, he regains his composure quickly and looks at Watson.

“Yes. Well, what he means is…”

“No, it’s a good question. I can definitely see why you would wonder about it. It’s a bit strange. Quite a shift from one world to another, let me tell you,” Watson cuts him off with a wave of his hand. He shifts his eyes to Sherlock and watches with a measured gaze. If Sherlock didn’t know better, he would think the man was deducing him. The coach looks right back at him, all manner of deductions filling his brain as he waits for the doctor’s answer. If the man is offended by the implications the question carries, he does not show it.

“Well,” Sherlock prompts wryly. John blows out a puff of air and almost seems to relax even more than he has already.

“I was bored.”

The room is silent. Sherlock only just keeps his jaw from dropping. His suspicion and deductions falling away as one all-encompassing thought spreads through his mind palace from the top down. How can a man like Dr. John Watson even exist, and in this place and time  **with** Sherlock? The derby gods are clearly toying with him. He prides himself on having no romantic entanglements. They only complicate things and occupy space in his mind palace, intrusive and pushing themselves to the forefront when he has more important matters to consider. And now… He stares at the man before him, all smooth edges and charming smiles and identical dimples on either cheek and so...damn...genuine. 

“Bored?” Greg’s voice snaps Sherlock from the spell. He blinks and looks at Greg, whose brow is furrowed in confusion.

“Yeah, I know. Sounds totally mental,” Watson acknowledges. “It was general surgery, so it’s not like I was doing the same nose job day after day on the rich and stuck up. I just...I wanted something different. I didn’t love doing it anymore.”

Sherlock can see why Mrs. Hudson likes this man so much. Her husband’s obsession with money and power made her see just how unimportant they really are and anyone who would cast aside a lucrative position to follow a dream, a passion, is worth his or her weight in gold. Watson definitely has a passion for healing and comforting the fallen. It is who he is and practicing medicine in any setting clearly brings him joy and purpose. Sherlock stops for a moment to wonder if he, himself cares about anything so deeply. The answer is obvious. Derby. Skating. It’s in his blood and has been ever since the first time he skinned his knee trying to balance on his first pair of quads. Losing it would be losing himself.

“So, hockey?” Greg’s voice pulls him from his reverie. His eyes coming back into focus, Sherlock looks at the other two men. Greg gives him a side glance that screams ‘What the hell is wrong with you’, but he schools his expression quickly and looks back at the doctor.

“Yeah,” Watson says with a chuckle, “‘bout as different as it gets. New place, new people, new medicine.”

“Your file says you ‘minored’ in sports medicine?” Greg begins. “What does this even mean? How does someone minor in anything while studying to be a surgeon?”

“I needed something else to fill my time,” Watson shrugs. “I’ve always been drawn to sports medicine. Always wanted to develop new ways of treating common injuries, both major and minor, but research was never my forte.”

Suddenly it all becomes clear to Sherlock in a burst of uncontrolled deduction and the words are out of his mouth before he has a chance to think better of it. 

“You have a limp.”

Both men snap their heads to stare at Sherlock in surprise.

“Very slight, but it was much worse and for quite some time,” he continues, reading it off the doctor like a book. It is the first time since he entered the room that he can deduce Watson at all. There is something about him, something odd. Something that keeps Sherlock from seeing the real Dr. Watson like he can with everyone else he has ever met. It is absolutely intriguing and Sherlock cannot resist the temptation to continue reading. “You played rugby your first year of college. You entered medical school the following year. Your build and shorter stature lent well to the sport, so the ball was often given to you. It was on one such occasion that your leg was broken, in a less than clean hit. Two places, possibly three. It was difficult to repair. They said you would never walk again.”

“Sherlock!” Greg says, loud and stern. Sherlock meets his furious eyes and wonders how many times he tried to get his attention,

Regretfully, Sherlock shifts his gaze to the doctor. Sherlock had expressly agreed not to do exactly this. Not to piss off the man on his first day. Not to attack him or push his buttons, especially since they will be working together so closely. But when he looks at John Watson, there is no trace of anger on his face. It is more like surprise, disbelief, admiration? Sherlock cocks his brow and tilts his head.

“That. Was,” Watson’s words come slowly and Sherlock readies himself to apologize, “Amazing.”

Coach and GM alike blink their eyes wide, both expecting a completely different response.

“You really think so?” Sherlock asks.

“Absolutely,” a smile tips up the corners of Watson’s lips and his tongue darts out to lick them.

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“Oh? What do they say?” 

“Piss off.”

A warm laugh bursts from the doctor and he shakes his head slightly. Sherlock follows suit in spite of himself. What is going on? He wasn’t meant to feel immediately at ease with this man. He was going to approach him with cold caution and ask the rude questions, not melt into a giggling puddle at the doctor’s feet.

“Dr. Watson,” Sherlock says, affecting a tight and tense tone, “why have you accepted this position?”

“Well, working the hockey racket isn’t as exciting as you might think,” he answers simply. “Meeting Mrs. Hudson at the conference was a godsend. We hit it off straight away, and she told me everything about roller derby, the team and its history. It’s where I need to be.”

“Is it? And why is that?” Sherlock asks sharply. Greg is staring daggers at him, but he ignores him. He made a promise to Molly, to all the ladies, and he will not forget it. “Is it the appeal of playing doctor with fit women rather than a bunch of toothless hooligans?” 

Sherlock’s eyes are hard and accusatory. The doctor stares at him cooly. The office is so quiet that a noise, any noise in the whole facility, could find its way to the three men’s ears. Greg is about to stand and break the silence when Watson beats him to it.

“Mister Holmes,” he begins in a crisp voice, “any coach in your position, especially one who had just run across such a bastard as you have, would take all steps necessary to make damn sure it didn’t happen again. I absolutely understand that. Let me assure you that I would never make any advances toward any patient. It is despicable and an utter abuse of trust.”

Sherlock stares him down with fury in his eyes, waiting to hear the speech Anderson gave him when confronted. ‘I would never risk my medical license or my reputation on a whore like Sally Donovan.’ That was all it had taken for Sherlock to lay out the prick with one punch  **and** throw him right out of the building with an honest to god kick to the curb. Anderson was arrested after Mrs. Hudson formally fired him. With no danger of him returning, Sally finally opened up about the full extent of his manipulations. Mrs. Hudson and the team lawyers made every effort to have Anderson punished to the fullest extent of the law, but he had been bailed out and then vanished.

Sherlock waits for the same pompous, arrogant words to be tossed in his face as he grows more angry by the second. But they do not come. Instead, Watson fixes him with very serious and concerned eyes.

“Please check up on me in any way you feel necessary. I will not disappoint you.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. Is the doctor upset that he accused him? Of course he is. He’s fully pissed off, but doesn’t show it. Well, not in any way someone other than Sherlock can see. Watson also clearly understands Sherlock’s position, just like he said, and has elected diplomacy over sentiment. The coach can feel a thin layer of reason slough off his defenses. He ignores it.

“Thank you,” he says in a neutral tone. “I will.”

“Sherlock, why don’t you show Dr. Watson his office and finish the tour?” Greg interjects suddenly. He watches Sherlock closely as he continues to deduce Watson. He knows exactly what the coach is doing. Exactly what he isn’t supposed to and at Molly’s request, no doubt. Greg could stop him or send him away on some stupid errand and show the doctor around himself, but he won’t. The truth is, he also wants to know for damn sure that they will never have another Anderson in their ranks. 

When Sherlock finally turns his head to meet Greg’s gaze, the smallest of smiles flits over the GM’s lips. The hard-nosed coach has come to the same conclusion he and Mrs. Hudson have, even if reluctantly - John Watson can be trusted.

“Of course,” the tall man rises and Watson follows suit. Sherlock holds the door open. The doctor passes through with a goodbye to Greg and a thank you to Sherlock. Just before he turns away, Greg catches Sherlock’s eye.

“Be nice,” he mouths.

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically and closes the door.

He continues the tour where Mrs. Hudson left off, showing Watson where other staff offices are, including his own. They survey the in-house x-ray, CT and MRI suites, as well as the sick bay for minor injuries and short stays of observation. Anything more invasive requires transport to Ford Hospital. As they walk a few feet to Watson’s new office, Sherlock loses his stride for a moment before resuming pace. He and the doctor have engaged in easy conversation whenever he hasn’t been offering an explanation for a room or policy. Sherlock isn’t even faking. It is not the annoying ‘polite conversation’ he is sometimes subjected to when reporters have to wait for the camera man.

What the hell is happening to him?

“You okay?”

“What? Yes, of course,” Sherlock glances toward the doctor and rushes to say, “This is your office.”

He unlocks the door and pushes it open. The light clicks on as they enter the spacious room filled with filing cabinets and bookshelves. A large wooden desk dominates, a closed laptop resting on one side with a separate keyboard and monitor. Watson takes it all in as Sherlock closes the door behind.

“You can rearrange or remove anything you like,” he says. “The next two doors down are exam rooms. I’ll show you when we leave.”

“Of course, of course. Medical records are on paper as well as electronic?” Watson asks, walking around the desk. Sherlock stares at him a moment before nodding. The corner of Watson’s mouth rises and he gestures. “Too many filing cabinets not to have copies.”

“Our previous physician had been here for some time and was of a more old fashioned sensibility,” Sherlock explains, referring to the team doctor before Anderson. As he watches Watson look around the room, his lips quirk upward in spite of himself. What other deductions will the doctor make?

“That’s good to know,” Watson nods. “And these medical texts?”

“He left them. Thought they could be helpful to the next physician.”

“I’m sure they will be,” he says with a smile. His clear blue eyes train around the room again before he faces Sherlock. “You said there are exam rooms?”

“This way.”

They leave the room and walk the short distance to the two rooms.

“Great. This all looks good,” Watson says, rubbing his hands together briefly. “What’s next?”

“The track and the team,” Sherlock says simply. The doctor grins almost mischievously.

“And are they still practicing?”

“No,” Sherlock returns with a self-deprecating smile. “I called practice when I started for Greg’s office. I’m not a monster, whatever popular opinion may suggest.”

“So you did come straight from practice then,” Watson’s grin broadens.

“Problem?”

“No, just explains the bandana and the whole…” he gestures toward Sherlock’s workout ensemble. Sherlock lifts his hand and rests it on the bandana hiding his hair. He had all but forgotten it was there. Like many of the ladies, he always wears one under his helmet to keep any stray curls from falling onto his face. Shaking his head, he uses the same hand to direct the doctor down the hall for the elevator.

“How far back do the records go?” Watson asks into their companionable silence. 

“Since each one joined the team,” Sherlock answers, “and a medical history, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoes and then smirks. “And the coach too?” 

“Of course,” he says again, looking sideways at the shorter man. “Everyone on skates.”

“Do you skate often?”

“Nearly every practice,” the coach shrugs. “Depends on what we’re doing.”

“Do a lot of coaches skate with their teams?”

“No, most don’t.”

“And what makes you so different?”

They stop in front of an elevator. Sherlock presses the down button and fixes a steady gaze on Watson.

“ **That’s** what makes me different.”

Neither man says a word. The doors open and they step inside the elevator.

“Mrs. Hudson said you were the youngest coach the league had ever seen when she hired you.”

“Mrs. Hudson seems to have told you quite a bit,” Sherlock answers with irritation.

“She thought I should know the team history.”

They share a look as Sherlock’s hackles raise. Just what does Watson know? How much did his well-meaning surrogate mother share?

“Look, Watson…”

“Please,” he interrupts, hands up in placation, ”I didn’t mean to offend you. Mrs. Hudson is obviously quite fond of you. I just thought it was...sweet. Reminds me of my own mum. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock pauses, eyes searching the doctor’s face, but it has gone disappointingly unreadable again. He straightens his spine, head held high as he shifts his gaze back to the elevator doors.

“How does she feel about you living on another continent?” he deflects, trying not to show just how much he appreciates the apology.

“Oh, I don’t suppose she minds. She passed five years ago.”

“God,” Sherlock mumbles nearly inaudibly. Of course he would stumble right into talking about Watson’s dead mother.  _ Jesus Christ.  _ He continues to stare at the elevator door, not wanting to meet Watson’s eyes. Finally raising his voice to speak more clearly, tilting his head toward the doctor as he does so. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine,” the elevator doors open, “and please call me John. Good working relationships start with first names...Sherlock.”

“Right,” he replies, having no intention of doing so. “The stadium’s this way. You’ll hear it called the track, auditorium, a handful of other things. I prefer stadium.”

“How many people does it hold?”

“About 20,000.”

“Wow.”

“Derby isn’t as big as football or baseball, but we attract a big crowd. We’re almost always sold out.”

“But this building is so big. I can’t believe I’ve seen all of it.”

“You haven’t,” Sherlock smirks as he pulls open a door. “Ironically, we share it with the Red Wings and Pistons. They share the other half. Capacity’s about the same. If you don’t like it here you can always switch to the other side.”

Watson might have laughed at the joke, but he had just entered the stadium and appeared to be mesmerized by… Ah, the championship banners.

“Nine years straight,” he looks at Sherlock, not even bothering to hide how gobsmacked he is. “One for every year you’ve been here.”

“Except the first,” Sherlock corrects and Watson just huffs a short laugh. “Come on. The ladies are waiting on the track.”

The two men walk up the ramp that lies between two sections of seats. As they go, the group of women comes into view. When they see Sherlock and Watson approach, those who were sitting on the railing or in the team box stand and gather. The two men soon stand before them, their coach gesturing toward the doctor.

“Ladies, this is Dr. John Watson. He comes to us from sunny California.”

“Shit,” HardOn says without a care in the world, “that’s like having 24/7 vacation. Why the hell would you come here?”

“Yeah, don’t let the sunny days fool you, Doc. More of ‘em have snow than not,” Hella continues.

“Thanks for the tip,” Watson chuckles. Sherlock bites back a grin in an effort to maintain some sense of professionalism, but inside his heart wants to soar. He tries to tamp it down, keep himself from getting carried away. But in all honesty, every one of Sherlock’s innermost hopes for the new doctor seem to be coming to fruition before his very eyes. And wouldn’t that be fucking fantastic? And where the hell did this man come from?

“We’ll get to the comedians in a moment,” Sherlock clears his throat and motions to Molly, who steps forward with a smile. “This is our team captain, Mollycious Intent.”

“Hi,” she shakes Watson’s hand. “Molly Hooper.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” he replies with a warm smile. Molly glances at Sherlock and reads the approval on his face. Her smile brightens as her eyes slide back to the doctor.

“Pleasure’s all mine.”

“Molly has been our captain for eleven of her fourteen years with the team,” Sherlock tells Watson almost proudly.

“Wow,” the doctor’s eyes widen. “You must have been just out of uni, yeah?”

“Drafted straight out of college, if that’s what you mean,” Molly laughs.

“That’s exactly what I mean, yes,” Watson joins her with a chuckle. “It’s good to meet you. We’ll talk later, yeah?”

“I’d like that,” Molly answers. She turns to the rest of the team and the doctor follows her lead. Hella steps forward, offering her hand. 

“Hell on Wheels,” she says as they shake hands. “Hella for short.”

“Nice to meet you, Hella,” Watson says her name hesitantly.

“Clara,” she laughs. “Don’t worry. Real and derby names are in all the files.”

“God, I hope so,” he answers with a laugh. Hella tilts toward HardOn and gently places her head on the shorter woman’s shoulder.

“And this is my better half, Harry.”

“Oh, Harry,” the doctor looks somewhat relieved, obviously hoping that is her derby name. His expression alters greatly when she takes his hand and introduces herself by the real one.

“HardOn.”

“What?”

“HardOn.”

Watson is frozen to the spot and his face panicked. HardOn simply grins at him casually and Sherlock finds himself doing the same. There is something very genuine and charming about John Watson. Sherlock can feel his toes begin to tingle. It creeps up to his knees and along his thighs. It works its way up his torso to his heart and mind with every word Watson says to every skater he meets. It is undeniable excited energy and Sherlock is doing all he can to keep it in check.

“HardOn Skates.”

“On...skates.”

“Yeah,” she claps his shoulder, “now you’ve got it. Harry ‘HardOn Skates’ Dewhurst.”

Watson remains frozen another few seconds and then he lets out a long breath as he smiles slowly, understanding dawning.

“HardOn Skates.”

“HardOn.”

“Right.”

“I like you, Ph.D.,” she laughs. “You remind me of my little brother.”

“You’ll need lots of bonding time then,” a tall woman with dark brown hair and ruby red lips strolls over. She extends an elegant hand and takes the doctor’s in it warmly. He is completely flabbergasted, much like everyone who meets her. “I’m The Woman.”

“Irene Adler,” Sherlock interjects. He is annoyed, but why?

“You never fail to ruin an entrance, Coach,” she scolds. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Hi,” a short blonde pushes past The Woman. “I’m Bloody Mary and you are adorable. I could just...devour you.”

“Mary!” Sherlock snaps. Everyone looks at him in surprise. He is surprised himself, but will not show it. He is used to putting an end to Mary’s flirtations, but typically not with such vehemence. He quickly continues as if nothing unusual has happened. “May I remind you that no skater may have a relationship with an authority figure.”

“Well, sure, Coach. You can tell me anything you want,” she says with feigned innocence. She looks at him a moment and then covers her mouth with her hand, making a big show of faux shock. “Wait, does he count as authority?”

“You know he does,” Sherlock hisses as she raises her hands in placation.

Three more women approach Watson before any more can be said. The first, and leader of the pack, inserts herself between Mary and the doctor. 

“Trixie Belt’em,” she shakes his hand firmly. “Sally.”

“Sally, you have no idea how glad I am to meet you,” Watson says with a nervous laugh.

“I bet,” Sally murmurs with a knowing look. She turns to gesture at the woman to her right. “This is Bone Crusher.”

“Sarah Sawyer.”

“And Witch Hazel.”

“Anthea.”

“Good to meet you.”

The rest of the team introduce themselves one by one. Sherlock watches silently and tries not to grin like a fool. This man is perfect for the team. Absolutely perfect. And that is what makes Sherlock bite his lip and frown internally. _ No distractions. No interference. No sentiment.  _

As Watson meets the last woman on the team, his brows arch upward at the pleasant Irish lilt in her voice.

“Nice t’meet you,” she shakes his hand. “Ginger Smacks.”

She laughs instantly when Watson tips his head sideways in confusion. He glances at her dark hair and the corner of his mouth turns up.

“I know. It doesn’t make any sense, but it suits me. Call me Smacks.”

“Smacks, it is,” he huffs a laugh.

“I hear you’re from the UK. I used to live in London. Haven’t been back in years.”

“No kidding? Whereabouts?”

“Just off Hyde Park.”

“I was close to Regent’s. Baker Street.”

“Oh, yeah, right. I know the area,” Smacks smiles brilliantly and then sighs. “God, I’d love to go back one day.”

“Well, I’ll let you know if I see any good fares,” Watson jokes. He looks around at everyone and puffs out a breath. “So this is the team. I’ve met everyone?”

“Yep,” HardOn steps away from the group. “No offense, Ph.D., but I need to get going. Meet me later?”

Hella nods in answer as HardOn blows a kiss, bids everyone farewell and hurries away. As the rest of the group scatters with ‘see you laters’ and ‘nice to meet yous’, Sherlock sidles up to Watson’s side.

“I’m sure you’d like to start on the medical files. Think you can find your way back to your office?”

“Not a chance,” he replies with a genuine smile. It’s the most beautiful smile Sherlock has ever seen and now he will see it every day. By complete and utter coincidence, John Watson works in the stadium with him. Sherlock is a man of concrete principles - use the evidence at hand, knowledge of scientific forces, map out strategy in his mind palace. Fate is not something he believes in and yet, here is John Watson. Here, by his side, with no logical explanation.

Sherlock physically shudders and immediately berates himself internally. What the fuck is wrong with him? He made up his mind long ago. No feelings. No relationships. No entanglements. Caring about the ladies is one thing, but caring for one person, one man romantically is out of the question. It will only get in the way. Sherlock tamps down his traitorous thoughts and feelings. Caring is  **not** an advantage.

“I’ll walk you there.”

“Ta very much,” John lets out a breath of relief and a short laugh.

_ Damn that smile. _

Sherlock gestures and they walk around the track. He steers the doctor a quarter turn toward the inclined walkway from whence they came and they pass through the door. They remain silent until the elevator begins to ascend. John takes in a breath and holds it for a moment. Clearly, he thinks Sherlock will not like what he is about to say. Sherlock’s interest is peaked and waiting even the few seconds for John to speak is intolerable. 

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

Since when does he call him John?

“I’d like to sit in on practice,” John is looking right at Sherlock, eyes locked on his. He wants to ensure that Sherlock does not see this as an intrusion. “Every practice. Just for a bit. I want to see how the game is played and where the injuries may come from. It’ll help me know what to expect.”

Sherlock doesn’t say a word or even move. He simply stares at John, mystified. Every one of his defenses begins to melt, dripping off his body like beads of sweat. Again, Sherlock asks himself how this man not only exists, but is standing before him. He seems to embody all Sherlock could ever dream of for the Rock City team doctor. He is brilliant, well-versed, interested,  **interesting** , friendly, he already gets along with the ladies. He wasn’t just taken aback when The Woman flirted with him, he was downright flustered and it was so incredibly adorable.

Sherlock blinks his eyes, breaking the spell and pushes away all of his thoughts to focus on the issue at hand.

“Of course,” he shrugs his shoulders casually so John will know he is not at all bothered by the request. “It is the best way to truly understand the sport.”

“But Anderson never did it,” John supplies in a skeptical tone.

“Not once,” Sherlock says the words like they taste sour. “The man had no idea. He was an idiot.”

“I don’t doubt it. And I don’t plan on repeating his mistakes.”

“Not possible,” Sherlock states matter of factly. “You are nothing like him.”

They study one another in silence and the elevator doors open. They walk down the hall and are soon at John’s door. He unlocks it with the key card Sherlock gave him, but stops half way in and turns back to the coach. Sherlock suddenly feels like he is on a date that has reached its awkward ending and he cannot decide whether or not to seal it with a kiss.

“You’ll let me know when you hold practice?”

“I’ll email you the schedule as soon as I get to my office,” he assures him.

“Good. Great. Thanks,” John moves further into the office.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Sherlock reminds and then turns in the direction of his own office.

John leans back against the closed office door and blows out a long breath. He expected Mrs. Hudson to take him all over the stadium and tell him all manner of stories so he knows the place like he has been there much longer than a few hours. He expected to meet the staff. Obviously. He would spend a lot of time with Greg. John thought Greg would take him on the rest of the tour and walk him down to meet the team. He had no idea how many women there would be. He knew it would be less than the hockey team, but he would still have a host of names to learn. It didn’t occur to him that he would have to learn two sets of them or that one set would be so colorful. Christ, one of them is called HardOn for fuck’s sake. 

John walks to the desk and sits. He opens the laptop and logs in with the password written on a note next to it. He changes the password and begins scanning through folders and file names to get an idea of how things are organized.

“Hm. Arranged by surname,” he mumbles to himself. “Makes sense, but no one mentioned a single one. Oh, wait! Dewhurst, Harriette. Well, that’s one.”

He huffs a laugh. He will read everything in every folder, of course, but won’t know who matches what until he goes to practices and gets to know everyone better. Although, he may be able to tell from cadence and habits created by old injuries. He smiles to himself as he continues to scan the screen until his eyes settle on the folder called Holmes. Holmes. John’s lips curve downward. He opens the folder and then each file one by one.

John expected everything he saw and learned, every policy, every person he met. But what he did not expect was Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson had told John a lot about the coach, both professionally and personally. To a great extent he feels he knows Sherlock Holmes, in spite of having just met him. Mrs. Hudson had warned him that Sherlock would behave badly when Greg introduced them, asking very pointed questions and possibly with hostility. 

“It’s all to protect the ladies, John,” she had said. “You have to understand how horrible Anderson was. Please don’t take it to heart.”

“I’ll work closely with this bloke, yeah?”

“Very.”

“Suppose I don’t pass his test, Or he just doesn’t like me.”

“Oh, he’ll like you. No doubt about that,” Mrs. Hudson had chuckled knowingly. John raised a brow. “You two are like two peas in a pod. You’ll just click. I can tell.”

John had laughed then, putting little stock into Mrs. Hudson’s crystal ball, but after meeting the man… John typically gets along with people - he’s friendly and conversational - but with Sherlock. It all comes so naturally and John feels so comfortable, like he has known Sherlock for years. And yet, John must tread lightly. Sherlock could still prove to be a hindrance if he disagrees with John’s diagnoses or treatment in the future. The coaches in Anaheim did it often enough. Plus, Sherlock was friendly enough after the initial interview, but was also so distant. It has left John with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It seems Mrs. Hudson’s intuition could not have been more wrong.

John reads on and is tilting his head, reading an x-ray of a past fractured wrist when a knock sounds on the office door. His eyes train on it and he rises to answer, wondering who would be calling on him so soon after his arrival. Greg or Mrs. Hudson, come to tell him some forgotten piece of information? When he opens the door, it is Molly Hooper on the other side. She looks nervous and uncertain, the complete opposite of the confident derby captain he met only moments ago.

“Molly,” John says, surprise in his voice.

“Hi,” she avoids his eyes. “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” John steps aside. “Come in. Come in.”

“Thanks,” Molly says with a small smile and walks into the office. John motions to the chair in front of his desk. Molly already seems more comfortable with the situation and wears the confident expression she had when they met by the time she is seated.

“Are you all right?” he asks as he sits. “Were you hurt at practice? Or a chronic issue? I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to read up on everyone yet.”

“Oh no, no. I wouldn’t expect you’d know all that yet,” she stops speaking for a second and looks at him with probing eyes. The skin beneath them contracts as she looks at him, considering. John begins to wonder what this meeting is all about. “No, I’m fine. I just wanted to talk.”

About what, John wonders.

“Of course,” he says instead. “I’m here for whatever you need.”

“Right. Well. God, I don’t know how to begin. I don't know how to say it without sounding like a paranoid schizophrenic,” she tells him honestly, sighing and leaning back in the chair for a split-second. She sits up again before John can say a word and perches on the edge of the chair. Resting her hands on the desk, she leans in and speaks in a lower voice, “Someone is trying to sabotage the team.”

John’s eyes widen because that is absolutely the last thing he expected her to say. Hell, it wasn’t even on the radar. He leans to one side, resting his elbow on his chair’s armrest. His brow wrinkles, as it always does when he’s trying to solve a problem. He purses his lips as he considers her words.

“Sabotage how?” he asks measuredly. “Did something happen in practice?”

“No. Oh, no,” Molly shakes her head. “It never happens in practice. Always bouts. And not every bout, or even in a pattern. I think it’s meant to keep us from noticing.”

“And what happens exactly?” John asks, but is sure he knows the answer.

“Accidents,” she says, her voice hushed and very serious. “Wheels coming off, or toe stops. Trucks loosening, axles coming clean off their plates. That stuff does **not** just happen, Dr. Watson.”

John bites his lower lip and leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk, mirroring Molly’s posture. He looks at her directly and blinks once, trying to wrap his head around the situation.

“Molly, I’m going to be honest,” he begins in a softer and less clinical tone. “I have no idea what most of that means. I mean, wheels, yeah. Toe stops, sure. But you’ve lost me on plates and trucks.”

“Oh, god. Sorry, sorry,” she drops her forehead into her hand for a moment and then looks at him. “Of course. The plate is the long piece of metal the boot sits on. All of the wheels, the toe stop, everything is attached to it. Trucks are what attach the axles to the plate, follow?”

“I think so,” John nods once slowly. “Have you told anyone your suspicions?”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “Sherlock.”

John wonders a moment when she calls the coach by his first name, but doesn’t stop to let it distract him from the issue at hand.

“And what does he say?”

“He chalks it up to ‘user error’,” Molly makes air quotes and rolls her eyes. “Some of the others wear older skates out of superstition and so on. Some may not give enough attention to proper maintenance, he says. But we all check our gear, Dr. Watson, especially before a bout. And even if what he says is true, it still doesn’t mean someone isn’t messing with our gear. He just doesn’t have sufficient data to draw a conclusion.”

“So he’s still collecting evidence?” John wonders at her use of words. They sound like precisely the words the coach himself would use, like there is a certain level of trust between them. A relationship?

“Of course. He’s very methodical.”

“Then why involve me?”

“If someone actually gets hurt, you’ll be seeing to them. You should know something’s going on,” Molly straightens in her chair and lifts her elbows off the desk. “And there’s...there’s something else. Something I haven’t told Sherlock.”

“Why not?” John asks with interest. This story, this woman is absolutely intriguing. He knows she is not paranoid or a schizophrenic, in spite of her concern that he will think so. That is as obvious as the day is long. Nevertheless, if he was another man, John would dismiss it all and assure her that he would keep an eye on things and then not do a thing. But John is not like any other man. He was bored in London for a long time before packing up, leaving his entire life behind and moving across the ocean. He was bored in California. And now Molly Hooper has handed him a bona fied mystery and he is chomping at the bit.

“Molly,” he says quietly, curiously, “can I ask, why trust me with all of this? You don’t even know me. We met not two hours ago.”

“Mrs. Hudson trusts you. And Lestrade,” she pauses and watches John with sharp, intelligent eyes. “Sherlock trusts you.”

John blinks in surprise. Sherlock trusts him?

“Anderson was only here for a year and was a complete idiot,” Molly interrupts his thoughts before he can even start to process that statement. “The team doctor before him was good though. You need to see him, Dr. Watson. He knows more than he’s said.”

“What?” his brow furrows in confusion.

“He didn’t just hang things up and retire like it seemed. He was sick and decided not to come back when he was better because…” she stops short. Molly is leaning forward again, both palms pressing hard on the desk and her body full of tension. She looks at him earnestly, the very weight of the world on her shoulders. “He left because he was poisoned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Da da daaaaaa!!
> 
> What the hell, Jane? Is it really a mystery? At the roller derby? Oh, wait. Does it turn out that Molly really is suffering from some kind of delusion? I mean, Sherlock isn't even a detective. John isn't his partner. They barely even know each other. They aren't even married. They're not even divorced! 
> 
> Oops, I fell into a Monty Python sketch for a minute there. Now that I'm back, I'll dive right into those questions I so love to pose at the end of my chapters.  
> Will Sherlock hold to his philosophy of no relationships, no complications, no sentiment? (I'll give you a clue - He's already failing at the no sentiment one, but I'm sure you picked up on that.)  
> Poisoned?! What the heck is that all about?  
> Will John speak with the previous doc to find out?  
> Will John tell Sherlock what he finds out?
> 
> So many questions. Will chapter 3 answer them all? Who's to say? 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and stick with me. Your support means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing no matter what. Thank you all. I love you. So, until next weekend...Keep your pants dry, your dreams wet and remember, hugs not drugs.  
> Love, Jane


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John pays a little visit to the doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Everyone! I hope this chapter finds you all safe and healthy, and coping with all the craziness in our world today. Personally, I can't believe how many people are panic-buying toilet paper. Why toilet paper?
> 
> Anyway, wherever you are, whatever you're doing, I hope this next chapter and all of the following being a little joy and distraction to each and every one of you. Sorry it's a bit short, but the next one is freaking long! It's taking me forever to type and edit. I can't wait to see what you think of it!
> 
> ONWARD!!

_So while you sit back and wonder why, I got this fuckin’ thorn in my side._

_Oh my god, it’s a mirage. I’m tellin’ y’all, it’s sabotage._

_\--The Beastie Boys, Sabotage_

John Watson stands in front of a quaint house wondering what the fuck he’s doing there. It’s been two weeks since his first day in the stadium. Fourteen days since he spoke with Molly Hooper about her suspicions. It has been in the back of his mind ever since as he has read medical records in his office, spoken to the skaters in the exam and training rooms, and even while making dinner or reading a book in his flat. It is especially on his mind while he watches the ladies practice and god, he cannot believe how hard they hit on the track. He has seen hockey players crumple under hits like these and they are covered with pads. Frankly, John is surprised there are not more injuries throughout the year, especially since these are only the practices.

He blows out a breath and takes his hands out of his pockets. John had plenty of chances to change his mind when he looked up the retired doctor’s address and while driving the hour and a half to the cheerful little neighborhood. He is here now. He might as well get on with it. 

Striding up to the house, he takes in its white siding and dark green shutters. Many of the windows have boxes containing bright red poppies and small daisies. It’s like it was pulled right from Wizard of Oz and deposited in a Detroit suburb. John steps onto the porch where there is a single wicker chair sitting just to the left of the door and suddenly visions of the stereotypical old man perched on his porch with a shotgun, yelling at children to get the fuck off his lawn pop into his mind. A small smile teases at the corners of his mouth as he directs his attention to the door again and hesitates before knocking. He has no idea what to expect from this man. John glances at the chair again and then knocks firmly. The door opens almost immediately to reveal a man with greying hair and a smile that lights up his whole face. He looks almost joyful. And the epitome of Mr. Rogers, tan cardigan and all.

“I wondered if you’d get up the nerve to knock,” he remarks in a friendly tone. “I saw you drive up from the kitchen window.”

“Um...sorry,” he huffs an embarrassed laugh. “My name is John Watson. I’m looking for Dr. William Wiggins.”

“You found him, and it’s Billy,” the man answers warmly. “What can I do for you, John Watson?”

“Uh...well, I’m not exactly sure,” he cringes, lifting a hand and cupping the back of his neck. “You see, I’m the new doctor for the Detroit Rock City Rollers.”

“Ah, and you want to pick my brain, eh? Some of the ladies are probably different now, you know.”

“Yes, probably, but that’s not what I had in mind, actually,” John bites his lip and wonders how the hell he is going to explain this without sounding insane. He clears his throat and knows exactly how Molly felt. God, what is he even doing here? “I’ve only been here a couple of weeks and I… Molly Hooper...”

“Ahh,” Billy breathes, stepping back from the doorway. “Molly sent you. Come in, John Watson. Come in.”

Moments later, the two men are seated in the living room. John is on the couch and Billy sits in the recliner just opposite. John purses his lips with no idea how to start. To his surprise, the older man beats him to it and cuts right to the chase while he’s at it.

“She shared her suspicions with you.”

“Yes,” John breathes. He swallows and leans forward, sitting on the edge of the couch. “She told me about the accidents.”

“They weren’t accidents, Dr. Watson,” Billy’s voice is stern and his eyes are so intense a pang of discomfort jets down John’s spine. “Every one of those incidents was sabotage.”

“Can you prove that?”

“No,” Billy sighs. John feels himself deflating and he cannot hide his disappointment. Billy shakes his head. “I could easily see there were more injuries than usual. It was as plain as the nose on your face. Didn’t really occur to me that it could be anything other than a series of unfortunate accidents until Molly brought it up.”

John’s eyes are glued to the elderly man and he waits quietly for him to go on. Billy picks up a glass of lemonade from the side table and takes a drink. He had offered John a glass before they sat, but John had respectfully declined. Billy holds the glass in both hands and shakes his head once.

“I was taking a look at her knee. It was a follow-up visit weeks after to make sure it had healed well. She went very quiet when I asked her how it felt. I knew there was something on her mind, but I didn’t say anything,” he shrugs. ”I knew she would tell me when she was ready.”

“She told you it wasn’t an accident.”

“She checked all of her equipment a few hours before the bout. It was all fine, but a bearing came loose and the wheel flew right off,” Billy’s voice is very grave. “Even that could have been coincidence, but her knee pad blew out as soon as she hit the ground. There’s no way. No way in hell.”

“Who were you playing?” John asks.

“The Detroit Demons.”

“There are two teams in Detroit?”

“It’s a big city,” Billy replies. “They are Rock City’s biggest rival. Bouts with them are always the worst and hardest hitting.”

“Were they always playing them when it happened?” John is intrigued.

“No,” Billy places the glass on the coffee table between them. “It didn’t seem to matter who the ladies were playing and that made it harder to find a pattern.”

“Did you consider the possibility that it might be someone skating with Rock City?” John all but whispers. It is a huge gamble. The man might clam up and throw him out at just the suggestion. He had worked with Rock City a long time. He is sure to have plenty of pull with Mrs. Hudson and the staff. One angry phone call about paranoid and insulting accusations could get John fired before he has even started. John waits and watches the doctor for signs of anger that do not come.

“No,” Billy shakes his head. “I can’t believe it of them. Any of them.”

“Did you notice it happening more or less during a certain part of the season? Or in certain places?”

“Not really. It happened every few bouts. Sometimes five in between, sometimes ten. Derby is like hockey, Dr. Watson. There are a lot of bouts.”

“Tell me about it. I saw the schedule for the first time this morning,” John furrows his brow. Attacks on the team with no discernable rhyme or reason leave little room to find the answer to the mystery. How could John find clues where there aren’t any and without Velma Dinkley declaring ‘jinkies’ when one does present itself?

Staring at the lemonade glass on the table, deep in thought, John does not notice Billy studying him closely. The older man wears a thoughtful expression. He is learning as much from and about John as the doctor is from him.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more help,” he says finally.

“I think you can,” John replies, meeting the man’s eyes again. Billy tilts his head curiously. When John speaks, his voice is low and deadly serious. “Molly mentioned poison. She said **you** were poisoned.”

Billy’s expression darkens and he nods slowly.

“She really has put her trust in you,” he says quietly. “Yes, I was poisoned. I made sure everyone was told it was a bad case of food poisoning to avoid panic, but a couple of them knew what really happened. They could tell.”

“Molly was one of them.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone else?”

“No,” he answers plainly, averting his eyes to the table for a moment. “I retired and moved on. That’s what whoever did it wanted and I’m too old to deal with that shit.”

“So they still don’t know?” John asks, incredulous. “Didn’t you think one of them might be next?”

Billy leans close and stares into John’s eyes. John follows suit, anxious to hear Billy’s next words. Knowing the risks, how could this man keep such a secret?

“Someone wanted me out, Dr. Watson. I was the clear target and there was no sense worrying the team. Yes, there were accidents, but only with minor injuries. I had no reason to believe anyone was in mortal danger.”

“Does Greg know at least?”

“Molly knows.”

“Jesus,” John runs a hand through his hair and lets out a long breath, “someone else should know. Greg or Mrs. Hudson. Someone should be watching out for more accidents. Molly can’t do it while she’s on the track.”

“You know now,” his words silencing John. “Now you can help Molly find out who’s doing it and then prove it. I have the tox report, but it isn’t much good without a suspect and proof.”

“What was it?” John asks after puffing out an almost flustered breath. “What did they use?”

“Cyanide.”

John’s brows raise as he blinks in disbelief. He leans back on the couch for the first time since he sat. He turns everything around and around in his mind, trying to put it all together in a way that makes sense. Who would target the Rock City players and their doctor, especially their doctor? Another team? Why? The answer is obvious. To be on top. To win the championship. But why Billy? Why not Sherlock? He rebuilt the team from the ground up. 

The answer hits John like a slap in the face.

“They wanted to get rid of you and bring Anderson in,” he says as a piece clicks into place.

“Maybe,” Billy replies thoughtfully. He gives John a look and narrows his eyes. “You have met Sherlock?”

“Yes,” John answers with a short laugh. Billy raises his brows. John presses his lips together and looks at the old man. He has an almost mischievous glint in his eye. Should John tell him what he really thinks?

“And?”

“Honestly?” John sighs when the man nods. “I don’t know what to think. He’s so easy to talk to and it makes me feel like I’ve known him my whole life. Then he’s cold and distant and would rather do anything but talk to me. He avoids me at practices and basically ignores me at meetings. He’s a fantastic coach though and boy, can he skate. He’s amazing.”

John looks back at Billy to see a smile growing on his face. He looks down at the floor and corrects himself.

“It’s amazing. And the team is phenomenal. I’ve only seen scrimmages so far, and I’m just learning the rules, but they are really good. They communicate so well with all these signals that look like they’re just shaking out a kink or something.”

“That’s pure Sherlock,” Billy grins openly now. “He’s very clever.”

“Yeah, well, he’s certainly good at avoiding what he doesn’t want to deal with,” John grumbles. 

“He is very opinionated,” Billy laughs, “and has one hell of a stubborn streak. He can be a handful.”

He pauses and looks at John with a wisdom John has not seen since his mother closed her eyes for the final time. He sighs deeply and his expression softens.

“He gets his signals crossed when it comes to sentiment. He’s been burned before.”

“Sentiment?” John furrows his brow. 

“He’s a good ally to have, Watson,” Billy says instead of answering. He leans forward again and looks at John intently. “After what you’ve told me, I can see now that whatever was going on is more serious than I thought. I was a fool for not seeing it then.”

He shakes his head, his face now full of regret and urgency.

“I may not have been the only target after all. You and Molly have to stop it before something terrible happens. Get Sherlock to help. He will face the devil himself for the ladies. He’ll listen to the two of you. Don’t dismiss him as a lost cause.”

“No offense, Billy, you know him better than I, but why would he believe me? He doesn’t believe Molly.”

“Strength in numbers, Watson. He trusts Molly and she trusts you.”

“She says he trusts me,” John gives a half laugh and turns his head away from the older man. He can feel an unexpected low burning anger in his gut, though it is not directed toward Billy. He continues, suspicious and spiteful. “I suppose I should believe her since they’re thick as thieves. There’s something going on between them.”

“Careful, Watson,” Billy says in a quiet, warning tone. “There are some things one should stay away from. Leave it be.”

John looks back at him and then shakes his head.

“He’ll listen to you and Molly, John,” Billy says in a voice of absolute certainty.

John looks up in surprise at the sound of his first name. Billy is wearing a decisive expression and nodding his head slowly.

“Trust me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Anybody else excited to see Billy in a completely different role?? I love breaking the norms, taking the road less traveled. That's right! Your friend, Jane is a crazy woman. Bwahahahaha!
> 
> I don't know that there's more to say about this chapter than THE PLOT THICKENS. So we'll get right to the questions.  
> 1\. Sadly, the good doctors are correct and the threat has not passed, but who will be the next victim?? Da da daaaa!  
> 2\. Will John share what he has found with Sherlock? Will he, indeed, not count him out?  
> 3\. Why should he trust Sherlock in the first place?  
> 4\. Why is Sherlock being so moody around John and avoiding him so much? (I think we all know that answer to that one. wink wink nudge nudge say no more)
> 
> Find out the answers to (some of) these questions and (perhaps) many others in Chapter 4, which (if I had chapter titles) I would simply call "Dinner?".
> 
> Until then, keep your stick on the ice. -- and yes, I'm sad the NHL suspended the season, but I get it :(   
> Love, Jane


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, dinner?"
> 
> "What?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Everyone!!  
> I hope this chapter finds you all well and anxious for more. Honestly, I hope this provides a nice escape for you all. We are living in some crazy, crazy times. This has been a weird week with all the updates and changes. I hope everyone is okay.
> 
> Now, a little of what you all love best about me - a chapter and a little craziness, maybe a little snarkiness, maybe a little of column A and a little of column B. Or maybe I'll save that for the end. Haha. Anyway, so John has a little more information from the good Dr. Wiggins, but what will he do with it? There's a lot to weigh in on and a lot to do. Getting to know the skaters and staffers is number one on his list.
> 
> That said, I'll leave you to it...

_Just a kiss on your lips in the moonlight._   
_Just a touch of the fire burning so bright and I don't want to mess this thing up._   
_I don't want to push too far._   
_Just a shot in the dark that you just might be the one I've been waiting for my whole life._   
_So baby I'm alright, with just a kiss goodnight._

_\--Lady Antebellum, Just a Kiss_

The keys of his laptop click away as John types some notes on Witch Hazel, or Anthea, as her parents call her. She had sprained her toe just after the day’s practice. It is John’s fourth week with the team and the ladies are gearing up for the first bout of the season. Hits are harder, skates roll faster, and the chance for injury is growing. Although, and much to her chagrin, Anthea’s injury is not the result of skating. Sherlock had called practice, gathered everyone for the post-practice huddle and then sent them off to clean up. Anthea had the misfortune of slamming her foot into one of the stadium seats. When she kicked it. She was pissed off about something and chose to express herself in an usual and unwise way, as it turned out. In fact, it was the first time John had seen her express any emotion. She typically has her nose buried in her mobile and gives one word answers to every question.

John finishes the last of his notes when there is a knock on his door. He grants entrance as he types the last few words and closes the file. He stands as Bloody Mary Morsten walks in, closing the door behind.

“Hello, Mary,” John walks around the desk to face her properly. “What can I do for you?”

“Quite a bit, I’m sure,” she replies, eyes quickly roving over his body. “I need you.”

She pauses a little too long before continuing and John instantly begins to feel leery. This is not the first time she has flirted with him since they met. She takes a step closer and John wishes there was nothing at his back so he could inch away.

“I think I may have hurt myself during practice.”

“Oh?” John switches to doctor mode, immediately forgetting his unease. “What happened?”

Mary takes another step closer and pulls open the jacket she had held tightly closed up until this point. Not a stitch lies beneath. John does step back, what little he can, startled and trying desperately not to show it. Judging from the small smile on Mary’s blood red lips and the amused gleam in her eyes, he is failing.

“Would you take a look?” she sways her hips and her breasts move with them. She continues in a low, sultry voice. “You can...touch them if you want. In fact, I think you’d better give me a full body examination.”

She steps forward, undressing him with a fiery look. When her focus returns to his eyes, she is pleased to see they are focused on her bosom, but soon realizes they are looking at something lower.

“Hm, I’m more concerned about this,” he bends to look closer at a dark bruise on her ribs just under her left breast.

“What?” she steps back to give him more room, completely thrown off by his remark. Mary peers down to see what he is referring to. “Oh, that’s nothing. Happened a few days ago in practice. What **I’m** more concerned about…”

“Does this hurt?” he presses gently.

“Jesus Christ!” Mary clamors for her ribs, one hand covering his.

“You have a bruised rib.”

“Oh,” she gasps, but the warmth of his hand under hers and on the cool skin under her breast reminds her why she paid this visit in the first place. She narrows her eyes to look at him hungrily. “You can make me feel better, Doctor. With one deep injection.”

She begins slowly sliding his hand upward, but he immediately pulls it away and takes the barest of steps back before bumping into his own desk.

“Never gonna happen,” he says in a flat tone. “You know the policy as well as I do.”

“Fuck the policy,” she growls, closing the gap and grabbing his waist to hold him steady as she crashes her body against his.

At that moment, the door to John’s office opens as someone knocks on it sharply and Sherlock Holmes walks into the room.

“Sorry to barge in, but Greg wants…” Sherlock stops dead and stares. His eyes dart from John to Mary, who jumped away to glare at him. Her jacket is wrapped tightly around her torso again, but there can be no question in Sherlock’s mind as to what was going on.

“The doctor was just looking at something for me,” Mary supplies angrily. 

“I know exactly at what,” he says in a low and dangerous voice. “What the hell are you doing?”

John’s eyes widen. He had expected the coach’s question and ire to be directed at him, but he is staring pointedly at Mary instead.

“He’s cute. I just couldn’t resist,” she shrugs, unapologetically.

“See that you do,” Sherlock commands in a steady voice. Mary nods, glances at John one last time and then slinks out of the room. Sherlock turns his furious gaze from the now closed door to John.

“Let me guess,” Sherlock says as John opens his mouth.

“I know how this must look,” John interrupts, but the seething man cuts him off.

“She entered under the guise of some injury.”

“She does have a bruised rib,” John interjects in an unassuming tone. He is not about to get defensive about this, something he is not responsible for.

“And once inside, she exposed herself.”

“I’m putting her on IR for six weeks.”

“Six weeks?!” Sherlock bellows. John squares his shoulders and prepares for a fight, ready to defend his position to the end. But Sherlock surprises him, his expression becoming less angry and more thoughtful.

“Fine,” he says in a calm voice that is almost unsettling. “May I remind you of our position on fraternizing with the skaters? **Yours** is a position of authority.”

“And may I remind you that I would never put any patient in that situation,” John replies hotly. “None of that was my doing. Although, you seem to know that.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock admits after a beat. “Mary is one of our more aggressive players and not exclusively on the track. I’ve been expecting it.”

“Yeah? Well, you could’ve told me. Given me a little warning maybe,” John ‘s voice is rising in volume even as his mind says _shit shit shit._

“I didn’t think it necessary,” Sherlock bites out.

“Oh, you didn’t, did you? But you’re more than willing to throw it in my face when it finally comes to a head. Fucking hypocrite.”

“I beg your pardon,” the coach is somewhere between fury and incredulity.

“I said you’re one to talk with the way you and Molly carry on,” John remarks in a loud voice, temper flaring.

Sherlock’s misty grey eyes turn to stone and his jaw sets like iron. He doesn’t move a muscle and yet, he suddenly seems about ten feet tall and towering over John. Still, the compact doctor does not back down, straightening to his full height as well. Sherlock has a good six inches on him, but John still cuts an imposing figure. 

“Get out,” Sherlock growls. His voice is so low John can scarcely hear him and when he does, those two words tip the scale. John bends forward slightly cupping his ear.

“What? I didn’t catch that,” he straightens again and glares at the taller man. “Oh, are you angry because I had the balls to call you out? I don’t know how the others can ignore it like they do. Are you so important to the team that it doesn’t matter?”

John stares for a beat, giving the man the opportunity to defend himself. When he says nothing, John shakes his head and sneers in disgust.

“You are a coward and a hypocrite. You hold others fast to the rules while you break them as it suits you. You are pathetic, Mr. Holmes, and I’m going to put a stop to it.”

John pushes past Sherlock roughly and has his hand on the doorknob before he stops cold. He spins around quickly with an accusatory finger pointing right in Sherlock’s face. If the man wasn’t furious before, he is now. Sherlock glares down at John with a scowl on his face that sends ice shooting through John’s veins. 

“This is **my** office,” John nearly shouts. “ **You** get out.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They continue to stare at one another, neither moving an inch. Sherlock finally rolls his eyes and huffs, shifting his feet impatiently.

“You’re in the way,” he says petulantly.

John doesn’t move. His gaze is focused on those soft grey eyes. Soft now in spite of the raised voices and insults. He can see so many emotions within them and he is intrigued. He can’t stop himself from looking and seeing, just seeing. Anger, regret, curiosity, respect, friendliness and interest, and lingering behind it all, panic? And just like that, John’s mood, the air in the room, everything changes. Lifts. The anger leaks out of John’s body and pools on the floor around his feet.

Sherlock, on the other hand, now seems to be annoyed in addition to furious. He rolls his eyes again while John stands fixed to the spot and studies him. Clearly frustrated, Sherlock steps forward and tries to muscle his way to the door, but John has none of it. After another try to no avail, the coach backs up with a long and angry sigh, and glares at John with his hands on his hips.

“You’re really starting to piss me off now.”

“Sherlock,” John says in a calm voice that even surprises him.

“What?” he answers in a clipped tone.

John looks at the man standing before him and suddenly it occurs to him that he has never actually seen Sherlock like this before. Even in a month of time here, he has always seen him in the gym shorts, tees and bandanas from practice. No one in meetings minds what he is wearing because he usually has afternoon practice post-meeting anyway. Why change?

But now he is wearing sleek black trousers and a bespoke, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, like some sort of well-dressed scientist about to begin an experiment. All he needs are goggles. And speaking of eyes, dark brown curls fall artfully around them, setting off pale skin and sharp cheekbones. John blinks once at this sight he has never before seen. He had not even considered what Sherlock’s hair might look like, always hidden under black, blue or dark purple bandanas. Never in his life would he have imagined what stands before him now and that is the precise moment that John realizes how little he knows about this man. Where did he come from? How did he get here? What exactly is his connection to Molly Hooper? Mrs. Hudson told him a lot during the conference, but it still seems like so little now when he suddenly wants to know everything about Sherlock Holmes. 

“You see,” John finally answers almost playfully, “I don’t know you.”

“What?” Sherlock’s brow furrows, creating a small wrinkle right across the bridge of his nose. John’s brows and the corners of his mouth rise in tandem. That was clearly not what the coach expected to hear and John finds it incredibly amusing. And oddly endearing.

“I’ve gotten to know all of the ladies a bit in the last month, had lunches with Greg and Mike and other staffers, but I know virtually nothing about you.”

The wrinkle between Sherlock’s eyes deepens as he studies John. The corners of his mouth turn down as he searches John’s face and cocks a brow.

“I rather thought Mrs. Hudson already covered that,” he replies with some bitterness.

“She told me about your time with Rock City and about hiring you, what she saw in you and how she feels about you. She didn’t say anything else. I’d like to know you and hear it from you,” John tells him emphatically. “And I can tell you about myself too.”

“I already know everything about you,” Sherlock says haughtily.

“Oh, I’m quite sure you don’t.” John chuckles

“I seriously doubt that,” Sherlock retorts smugly.

“Yeah, right, I know. You read people, but it’ll be my voice and my perspective. There’s value in that that your method ignores.”

Sherlock looks at him thoughtfully for a moment, considering his words carefully. John can practically hear the cogs turning. The light in the man’s eyes changes with his decision and even sparkles with intrigue just a little. The prospect of a new puzzle to work out, perhaps?

“All right,” he acquiesces.

“Okay. So...dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Let’s have dinner.”

“What? Tonight?”

“Yes,” but then John back peddles, “unless you have plans.”

“No,” Sherlock rushes to say before trying for a more casual tone. “I mean, nothing specific.”

“Good. We could leave from here around six?”

“I can do that.”

“Great. I’ll drive and you pick the place. I don’t know enough about the city yet to find something suitable.

Sherlock chuckles good-naturedly and almost slyly too.

“I know the perfect place”

***

Sherlock sits at his desk, his eyes wide and focused on the screen of his laptop. He is making notes on a new play, but his fingers have inexplicably stopped moving. He stares right at the words, the cursor blinking behind the last one and yet, he sees nothing. His mind, that should be filled with skaters on the track dodging this way and that, bringing his plan to life in his thoughts, is awash with John Watson instead.

He presses his lips together in a thin line and glances at the clock on the wall. He’s nervous. Why the hell is he nervous? It’s not like it’s a date. It’s nothing. It’s just two colleagues having dinner to chat and get to know one another. Never mind Sherlock has been avoiding John as much as possible for the specific purpose of not getting to know him. After all, the less John knows about him the better, and vice versa. Mrs. Hudson has already told him enough. Sherlock rolls his eyes. She means well, but she does meddle.

Sherlock raps his fingers on the desk one by one in a distinct pattern. He glances at his notes. At the clock. Back to his notes. _Goddammit. It’s nothing. Nothing!_ John merely made a suggestion and Sherlock agreed. He did not ask him out. Just because Sherlock is going to his favorite restaurant with a gorgeous man does not mean… _Oh, fuck._ Sherlock drops his face into his hands and sighs.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

His head snaps up at the light tap on his door as it opens. Sherlock’s eyes are wide again and he swallows audibly as John steps in with a warm smile on his face.

“Hey. Sorry I’m late. I was finishing up some notes,” he pauses to take in Sherlock’s appearance and tilts his head slightly. “You okay?”

“Fine,” the coach clears his throat. “I’m fine. Just doing the same.”

“Oh. Are you finished?” John gestures out to the hall. “I can wait if you need more time. You could just give me a call.”

“No, no,” Sherlock says quickly, suddenly on his feet and yanking the suit jacket from his chair, “it’s a good stopping point.”

He pulls on his jacket and closes the office door after they are both through. The two men walk side by side down the hall. Having regained his typical ease and confidence, Sherlock looks sideways at John with a smirk on his lips.

“I hope Italian is all right. Now’s your last chance to protest.”

“Sounds delicious,” the doctor replies with a grin.

***

The car ride to Angelo’s is comfortable and has Sherlock feeling as though he has known John for much longer than he actually has. There is no insipid small-talk, only easy silence interrupted by Sherlock’s directions and occasional tidbits about the neighborhoods they pass through. He does tell John that Angelo is an old friend and that they met almost as soon as Sherlock moved back to Detroit. It has been a long day at the stadium and Sherlock was starving. He had gotten in his car and just started driving. It was late enough that the staff had gone, but Angelo let him in and the two had talked for two hours while Sherlock ate an enormous bowl of pasta. 

John laughs at the story and Sherlock’s stomach does a flip.

Angelo catches sight of the tall coach and his doctor as soon as they enter the little restaurant. The robust man is at Sherlock’s side in an instant, throwing his arms around him like he would a son.

“Sherlock, my boy, why have you been away so long?” he laughs. “I thought this was the off-season, yeah?”

“Skating doesn’t stop because there aren’t any bouts,” Sherlock chuckles.

“Neither does eating,” Angelo reminds knowingly. Is it Sherlock’s imagination or did John just glance at his slender frame? Probably thinks he is too thin like everyone else, Sherlock thinks as he shakes it off.

Angelo takes a few steps back to look the two men over and then he’s shaking John’s hand.

“But now you think of old Angelo and bring your date to the best restaurant in all of Detroit,” he winks obviously at Sherlock.

“He’s not my date,” Sherlock says quickly in a clipped tone, feeling his cheeks growing hot and hoping they aren’t as pink as they feel. 

“Oh, sure. Of course he isn’t,” Angelo winks at John conspiratorially. “Come. I’ll take you to his table.”

Angelo pulls John along as they introduce themselves to one another. Sherlock follows in silence. He rolls his eyes once John’s back is turned and brings a hand to his face, pinching lightly between his eyebrow and cheekbone. He drops the hand quickly and grins, trying to look nonchalant when John looks back at him suddenly. Angelo presents them with a candle and bottle of wine after they are seated at a quiet table in the corner. John has a wide grin on his face while the man fusses over them and Sherlock becomes the focus of that smile once Angelo has gone. 

Another flip.

“He’s quite the character, isn’t he?” John laughs, waving a hand toward the candle.

“He is very boisterous, yes,” Sherlock replies mildly, wondering how to defuse the situation, but John surprises him and not for the first time.

“It’s delightful,” he smiles. He might have said more, but their server interrupts to give them menus and tell them about the specials. A moment later finds Sherlock studying John rather unabashedly as the doctor scans the menu. He would stop, but John does not seem to notice. 

“The ravioli al forno is very good,” Sherlock offers. John’s eyes rise from the menu to gaze at him. “The alfredo sauce is legendary.”

“Legendary?” John laughs. “How do you figure that?”

“Angelo has won more awards locally and nation-wide than any other.”

“Well, that **is** legendary, isn’t it?” John replies from behind his water glass. “I think that’s made my choice for me. And you?”

“Cheese and spinach ravioli. Can’t do without it.”

John opens his mouth to speak, but the server is back with bread and olive oil. The young man makes lame conversation as he prepares the oil, mixing in fresh black pepper and parmesan. By the time he has finished and taken their orders, Sherlock is ready to tell him to piss off. John must sense the tension because he remains silent, merely studying Sherlock while he sips his wine as if he is giving Sherlock a chance to cool down.

After a minute or so, John places the glass on the table and leans back in his chair casually. Sherlock cannot explain it, but he feels totally at ease with this man. He narrows his eyes and leans back in his own chair to suss out why.

“You said you met Angelo when you came back to Detroit,” John begins, “so you lived here before.”

Sherlock’s eyes pop open wide and he doesn’t even try to hide his surprise. Most people would need a fact like that to be pointed out and not draw the conclusion from just ordinary conversation.

“Oh, Doctor,” a smile spreads slowly across Sherlock’s lips, “you not only see, you observe.”

“I learned to watch and listen to everything over my years in medicine,” John shrugs, ducking his head at the praise.

Once again, their intrepid server appears to derail the conversation. Fortunately, more of his other tables are full now and he gives them their salads relatively quickly. They each unroll utensils from napkins and begin to eat. As Sherlock closes his mouth around a honey mustard-laden tomato, John looks at him again with the barest hint of a smile. 

“So?” he rests his elbows on the table and brings his hands together, fork still in the fingers of his left hand. Sherlock brings a cloth napkin to his lips and blots away a bit of salad dressing. He takes a deep breath in and straightens his spine. _Into the breach._

“I was born here,” he says simply. “In a suburb. Our house was on a cul de sac. It was one of those storybook neighborhoods. Everyone knew each other, the schools were close, we skated to the playground.”

“Skated? You skated even back then?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock answers. He watches John eat a bite of his salad and decides to push his luck. If John is asking him about his past, he may as well do the same. It may not be the best move, but he is willing to take the risk of revealing more of his deductions to learn even more about John Watson. “You’re an only child.”

John stops chewing and locks eyes with him. For a moment, Sherlock is afraid he has overstepped and his heart stops as he waits for John’s expression to turn into a scowl. But John just starts chewing again and flashes that brilliant smile after he swallows. 

“How could you possibly know that?” he shakes his head with a laugh.

“Behavior,” Sherlock tells him. “You are very independent and driven. You may work well with others, but have set ways of doing things. You speak of your parents fondly, but not of siblings.” He pauses, the corners of his mouth turning up and a mischievous gleam in his eye. “I’m not wrong.”

“No, you’re not,” John supplies. “My parents would’ve liked another child. They thought I needed a playmate, but I did fine on my own. I had a lot of friends.”

“Mine too. It just never worked out for them,” Sherlock admits grimly, remembering how he used to ask his mother when he would have a brother. He was too young to understand at the time. Sherlock turns his gaze back to John and continues. “Then the Hoopers moved in next door. I was six and Molly was five. We were instant friends. We did everything together. Neither of us really had any family. Grandparents dead and the like, so we spent holidays together. We would have one at my house and the next at hers.”

Sherlock pauses to sip from his wine glass. John is looking at him with rapt attention like he is the most interesting person on the planet. Sherlock tries not to dwell on this and also tries desperately to ignore the flip in his belly.

“At Christmas, when I was eight, our parents gave us skates. We couldn’t wait until spring,” he smiles at the memory. “We’d put them on sometimes just to feel the weight of them on our feet and that pull at our legs. We would stand in our bedrooms and balance on one foot, then the other. We’d walk around the room on our toe stops,” he looks at John and leans forward over his salad as though telling a secret. “We had to do it quietly so our parents wouldn’t find out we had them on inside the house. It really was a great way to master footwork without even realizing.”

Their server suddenly appears, earning him a glare from Sherlock. But he bites his tongue and hands the young man his picked-over salad. Sherlock finds himself excited to continue, which is odd because he doesn’t usually offer information about himself to others. This whole conversation is odd. It is like talking to Molly, only different somehow. He cannot quite put his finger on it. It is certainly just as comfortable as talking to her.

“Molly and I used to walk to the library in the snow after school to look at journals and magazines,” Sherlock says after the server has gone. He pops a ravioli into his mouth, his eyes sparkling. “We learned all about bearings and wheels and the tools we would need to make adjustments. Then Molly came up with shoveling driveways and using the profits to buy what we needed to be real professionals. Or, at least, what the minds children thought professionals would need. We weren’t far off though.”

“You did all this when you were seven and eight?” John asks in disbelief.

“It was the late 80s,” Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t know what it was like in London, but things were pretty lax and the suburb was like a small town where nothing bad happens. They all knew us and we just went around the cul de sac and up the street, not far at all. Our parents knew it was safe and that we could be trusted. Mom used to say I was an adult at five.”

Sherlock smiles at the memory almost wistfully. When he meets John’s eyes again, the doctor wears the same expression. John swallows a bite and props his elbow on the table to rest his chin on one hand.

“So when did you and Molly get into derby?” he asks with interest.

“We saw a match on TV once.”

“The bouts are televised?”

“On local channels. Nation-wide during the championship,” Sherlock chuckles at John’s wrinkled brow. “Don’t worry if you’ve never noticed. It’s rather eclipsed by the Stanley Cup playoffs, but it pulls in decent viewership.”

“I’ll have to look for that this year,” John smiles.

“You’ll be front and center this year,” Sherlock smiles back.

“So the bout you saw,” John shifts in his seat to move closer to the table, closer to Sherlock. He can see the excitement in the man’s eyes. Another flip. “How old were you then?”

“Nine and ten,” Sherlock answers, silently cursing his damn stomach. “From then on we started blocking each other. Sometimes we got other kids in the neighborhood to block while we jammed.”

“They just stood there and let you slam into them on roller skates?” John’s mouth hangs open in disbelief.

“We were kids,” Sherlock shrugs again. “We were invincible.”

“Oh, god. That’s fantastic,” he covers his mouth and leans back in his chair. He is back to the table again in seconds and seems like he is leaning even further over his plate. “Did you ever get in trouble?”

“No, not really. We all had some good scrapes, but never anything serious,” Sherlock drinks some wine, replaces his glass and waves his hand as a means of transition. “We kept at it for years. We started learning everything - rules, techniques, strategies - everything. We were going to be championship skaters together.” 

He pauses and lets his gaze fall to the candle, staring almost unseeing. 

“And then when I was a freshman in high school, the P.E. teacher told me derby was a sport exclusively for women.”

John sits back in his chair and his shoulders drop. His expression full of pain and empathy, he waits for Sherlock to continue. He looks exactly how Sherlock imagines he did when Coach Jones broke the news.

“I was devastated. And I felt incredibly stupid.”

“Stupid?” John’s voice is hushed. “Oh no.”

“Somehow, in all the bouts we’d watched, I never deduced that all female teams meant it was a women’s only sport,” Sherlock pauses thoughtfully and marvels at how caught up John is. He has never had such an attentive audience and his damn stomach flips again. “I told Molly as soon as I got home.”

“What did she do?”

“What could she do? She thought it was unfair and hated seeing my dreams crushed. She was angry as hell, but she couldn’t change it. Neither could I.”

John leans in again, elbows on the table and hands together in between, his fingers entwined. His face is so open and sincere. Another flip. 

_Shit._

“What did you do?”

“I started training with Molly even more so she could be the best skater derby had ever seen,” Sherlock replies resolutely. “I gave her advice and told her about the strategies I’d been dreaming up.”

“You coached her.”

“I suppose so,” he reflects, “but I would never have called it that at the time. Molly joined the derby class when she started high school. Coach Jones offered it after school, unofficially, of course. I think he only did it because Detroit has two teams, and because he liked it. Midway through the year, and at Molly’s urgence, he let me join in coaching. I took a year of community college for Molly’s senior year so we could keep training.”

“You put off university for Molly,” John restates in what looks like awe. Sherlock simply nods and John shakes his head with a quiet laugh. “You’re amazing.”

Sherlock’s fork stops half way to his mouth and he raises his eyes to meet John’s. The moment hovers thickly in the air between them. Sherlock cannot tear his eyes from his colleague’s face. The doctor looks content and relaxed, his eyes full of admiration. Sherlock clears his throat and shrugs his shoulders.

“We both went our separate ways once she graduated. Molly to Iowa because there was a derby program in athletics, not to mention the Old Capitol City team outside of the U, and I went to Wisconsin,” Sherlock pauses a moment to chew the bite waiting on his fork. John just sips his wine patiently. “She was recruited right out of school, as you know, and then negotiated her way back to Detroit, with Mrs. Hudson’s help.”

“Yes, Martha told me about that. All sounds like a damn nuisance,” John remarks.

“It is,” Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes a drink.

“So Molly started living her dream. What did you do?”

“I...got married.”

John nearly spits a mouthful of wine across the table, swallowing quickly and rushing the glass to his lips to catch any drips. His eyes blink wide.

“Does that surprise you? Do I not seem the marrying kind?”

“No. I mean,” he clears his throat with a little cough. “It’s certainly not what I expected.”

“Molly stayed in the midwest. Well, Ohio before heading back to Detroit and I followed Victor to California for grad school. I hadn’t intended on studying, but I was bored with my job within five minutes and Victor thought I’d enjoy school. Molly and my parents did too, for that matter.”

“And what did you study?”

“Physics.”

“Ah,” John grins cheekily, “makes sense with all the strategies, cuts and turns, and all those jumps.”

“So you have been paying attention in practice,” Sherlock smirks.

“Couldn’t help it, could I?” John says, puffing out a breathy chuckle. Sherlock hesitates a moment and then presses on. He might as well finish the story.

“We both finished in two years and got jobs. I started teaching at Stanford and Victor joined the family business practicing law,” Sherlock sighs in resignation at the memories. “He was expected to attend a lot of formal functions and parties, and needed someone attractive and poised on his arm. I fit the bill, but he wanted someone with no life of his own and nothing to do but help him look good. What Victor wanted was a trophy wife and I did **not** fit that bill. To make matters worse, he never understood my relationship with Molly and hated our marathon phone calls once a week. We divorced a year after graduation.”

“He was a fool,” John all but whispers, shaking his head. His expression is soft and his eyes look almost sad. Sherlock’s stomach flips again and much more dramatically than usual. He only just hides his astonishment from the doctor. To that end, he rushes on before John has a chance to notice and before Sherlock can think much about what it could all mean.

“My life was in tatters and I wasn’t happy teaching. I still had friends, but felt so alone. That’s when Molly convinced me to try and find a coaching position on a derby team,” he laughs to himself. “I was sure I wouldn’t even get any interviews, but they were actually anxious to meet with me. Turned out I had a reputation for being the man who trained Molly Hooper.”

“Ha-ha! Way to go, Molly,” John laughs. “So you coached for a bit somewhere else and then Mrs. Hudson hired you?”

“Something like that. I was an assistant coach because I hadn’t coached formally before, and I was so young. No one was about to give me my own team,” Sherlock corrects. “Mrs. Hudson took a big chance making me head coach at 28.”

“She told me that too,” John grins.

“I’m sure she did,” Sherlock snickers.

“And how you brought the team back from ruin. Very admirable.”

“Mrs. Hudson exaggerates.”

“No, I don’t think she does,” John replies with a knowing look. “You forget I’ve met with all the staffers. Paul Dimmock, Daniel and Craig, Greg - they all say it.”

“What about you?” Sherlock asks suddenly, eager to change the subject.

“What about me?” John counters.

“Did you grow up in London?”

“I did, yeah. There weren’t a lot of kids in my neighborhood, so I spent most of my time on my own. That’s how my parents discovered my aptitude for knowledge,” John dabs at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. Sherlock licks his own lips and his eyes fall to John’s for just a moment. The barest hint of a moment is all he allows himself and his damn stomach flips again. He sighs quietly.

Sherlock is in trouble.

“They found me in what doubled as a library and office when I was four. There I was, under the desk with a book in my lap. They thought it odd because it was decidedly not a picture book. It wasn’t until I started talking to them about the events described in that book, and others, that they realized I was reading them. And quickly too,” John puffs out a breath and looks away, out into the restaurant at other patrons as if in disbelief at his own memories. “They had been teaching me letters, sounds and colors, things of that nature, for a week or so. There weren’t any nursery schools close enough to our house and they’d taken it upon themselves to teach me the basics. Meanwhile, I used what they had imparted upon me and taught myself how to read.”

Sherlock watches John in fascination. There is absolutely no sense of superiority or condescension in his tone or manner. If anything, John seems almost dumbfounded by his own intelligence. It is both charming and odd. He is in a position to have become an incredible asshole and yet, he is friendly and unassuming. Sherlock wonders at how John’s parents kept him grounded. They must have been good people indeed.

“Did they test your IQ or send you to boarding school or…” Sherlock trails off. He feels like a nosy idiot. John must think him a fool, especially since he already said his parents didn’t enroll him in nursery school - is that preschool, he wonders - based on geography. They couldn’t have had the funds for such things if they needed a school nearby. As if reading his mind, John shakes his head slightly, taking a drink of water.

“We weren’t a wealthy family,” he begins, “but what my parents were rich in was connections. My mum’s best friend was a tutor, so she came to work with me in the evenings. When I was old enough, dad got me into an upscale public school. He coached the entire board at cricket in the summer. They even talked my way into uni and medical school. My marks and accomplishments helped too, but it was mostly them. They knew everyone and everyone thought the world of them.”

John wears a fond smile and has a far away look in his eyes. He clearly shares the opinion and loves them dearly. But suddenly he sobers and the wistfulness vanishes.

“My dad was diagnosed with cancer my last year of medical school and died just after I graduated. With mum it was an auto accident,” he looks at Sherlock and smiles again. “That, and boredom eventually drove me to America and hockey. Anything else you want to know? Or do you know it all now between Mrs. Hudson and your deductions, which I still find amazing, by the way. You have to tell me how you do it.”

Sherlock’s lips quirk up at the corners. He looks down again at the candle flickering on the table between them.

“Maybe another time,” he says coyly. _Oh, god. What is he doing?_ He raises his eyes to meet John’s. “Have you ever married?”

What is he doing? What the fuck is he doing? He is **not** flirting with John Watson. He is absolutely **not** flirting. He is simply engaging him in perfectly normal conversation.

Right.

Right.

Fuck.

“Eh, no,” John answers slowly, mild confusion on his face. He is probably trying to figure out what the hell Sherlock is playing at. Sherlock glances toward the restroom. Maybe he should excuse himself, slip into the shadows and hope the moment has passed by the time he returns. Or maybe he could climb through the small window by the sinks.

“I’ve had the odd relationship over the years, but have never been anywhere close to marriage,” John says, distracting Sherlock from his escape plans. Strangely, John appears to be completely at ease again as though Sherlock hadn’t said anything so idiotic at all and the coach is thankful for it. “Didn’t even bother dating in California, which worked out since I didn’t stay long. But now…”

John stops short. He stares at Sherlock a moment with wide eyes, his muscles tense. He looks as though he has either given himself away or been caught in the cookie jar. What had he been about to say?

“But now?” Sherlock prompts him. He shouldn’t, but cannot help himself. John is the most interesting man he has ever met.

“I didn’t miss much,” John amends and takes a quick drink of water. His eyes are shifty and he looks away pointedly. That is absolutely not what he was going to say and Sherlock knows it. And John knows he knows it.

Sherlock’s lips curl into a knowing smirk, but he does not have the chance to speak because Angelo is suddenly at their table. He asks about dinner and if they would like dessert or more wine. Both give him their compliments and turn down both offers. John goes on a bit about the alfredo and Sherlock can’t blame him. It is amazing.

In the end, John suggests coffee and Angelo is more than happy to oblige. Once the cups are delivered to the table and the restaurant’s proprietor gone, the two men talk and laugh together. They share stories they haven’t in years and even ones they have told no one before. Sherlock, for one, cannot believe the evening is real. He has never experienced anything quite like it. Molly is the only person he can talk to this freely. It does not make any sense, but he feels he has known John Watson for just as long and can trust him just as much. There is one very important difference, however. He has never wondered if Molly’s hair is as soft as it looks. Nor has he wondered the same about her lips.

That is exactly why Sherlock has avoided John since that first day they met. He knew this would happen and he will not allow entanglements. John has attended nearly every practice and Sherlock has all but run from the track each time to keep from talking to the doctor and risking a conversation just like this one. Now he is trapped. He could not escape John’s gaze if he wanted to and he cannot keep himself from glancing at John’s mouth or wishing he could touch him. 

Sherlock sighs. His resolution to steer clear of romantic entanglements is in tatters. It faded before his eyes the moment he met John Watson and his heart did it whole-heartedly without even consulting him. Sherlock knows he should be furious with himself, but instead he feels delighted and almost refreshed. Happier than he has felt in some time, if he is honest. He is just as mystified by that and he is by John himself.

“Shit,” John mutters, glancing around the restaurant. “There’s no one here. What time is it?”

Sherlock looks around while John checks his watch. The dining room is empty. Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if Angelo is the only other person there.

“Shit,” John repeats. “It’s after midnight. We should get out of here.”

As if on cue, Angelo reappears and insists they owe him nothing when they try to pay. The three men debate it all the way to the door, which Angelo unlocks to let them out. John and Sherlock finally concede and say goodnight as they step out onto the sidewalk. Soon they are walking to John’s car in a comfortable silence. 

“Shall I take you back to the stadium?” John asks, breaking through the quiet spell in the air around them. “Did you drive in this morning?”

“No,” Sherlock answers, looking sideways at John. “Greg wanted to talk and we were both booked up all day. I hitched a ride in so we could talk on the way.”

“Well,” John nods, “I could take you to your flat, if you want.”

“My what?”

“Sorry. Your apartment,” John sneers the word and then laughs. “I’ll never get used to that word no matter how long I live here.”

Sherlock chuckles with him and opens the passenger door when they reach the car.

“You certainly don’t have to use it on my account,” he looks across the car roof with a bright smile. “I believe the proper term for my home is condo.”

John laughs jovially as they climb in.

“Thanks so much for that,” he replies sarcastically.

Sherlock gives John directions as they go and before long, they are parked outside his building. He turns to face John, but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Once again, it feels like the end of a date where neither party can decide if he should kiss the other. God, how Sherlock wants to this time. Just the thought makes his stomach flip. Again. It is really starting to piss him off and yet, he hopes the feeling never stops.

“Thank you for driving me,” Sherlock says softly, “and for suggesting dinner. I enjoyed it very much.”

“Yeah, me too,” John smiles. “We should do it again.”

“I’d love to.”

The words are out of Sherlock’s mouth before he can stop them. He closes his eyes slowly, scolding himself. He has no idea how to explain that one away and just hopes John does not interpret it the way it sounded. Against his better judgement, Sherlock chances a look at the doctor. Instead of anger or utter confusion, John wears a brilliant smile without a hint of guile.

“Great. Let’s do it soon, and often,” he replies pleasantly. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”

“Of course, John. I’ll see you there,” Sherlock says with a silent sigh of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! I'm such a tease with the song lyrics, I know. No actual kiss this time around, but we all know that won't last. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this one! Personally, I thoroughly enjoy writing the conversation at dinner. Did Sherlock's past surprise anyone? Eh? Eh? I wish I could see all your faces when Sherlock says outright "I...got married". Ee-hee-hee-hee! Maybe it doesn't have the effect I imagine, but I'm going to hang to onto it anyway. The wide eyes, spit-takes, people falling over backwards in their chairs..it truly fills me with glee. 
> 
> We've learned quite a lot in this chapter and learning is always good. Then there's all those fond looks and sparkling eyes. Sure he's not your date, says Angelo. Heh. Heh. But for how long? (infamous brow waggle, knowing smirk, and meaningful gesture) You all know me. Jane the Romantic! (and not evil at all heh heh)
> 
> Also, before we get to the questions, WHAT THE FUCK, MARY?? Back off the doctor. Sherlock is jealous perhaps? Anyone else see that? Then a little spat and DINNER?? Ooooooo, the mind boggles.
> 
> And now, THE QUESTIONS! In no particular order.  
> What an interesting dinner! The boys are certainly getting closer, aren't they? But what does that mean?  
> 1\. Seems as though John trusts Sherlock with his past, but will he trust him with what he has found out about the mystery?  
> 2\. If he does, will Sherlock be annoyed that John has stuck his nose in? Molly did say Sherlock was trying to gather more data, after all.  
> 3\. Will accidents start happening when the season begins and, once again, who will be the next victim? Seems they should all watch their backs.  
> 4\. And the one question burning in everyone's mind... Just WHAT was John going to say after "But now"?? Oooo, oooo, a shiver runs down my spine just thinking of THAT one.
> 
> There are so many more questions, please feel free to pose them all. I can't promise I'll answer, but I'll certainly lead you along in my own humorous and snarky way. 
> 
> And so I take my leave. Stay safe and keep your stick on the ice. We're all in this together. (*sigh* I already miss hockey.)  
> Love, Jane


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's first bout.  
> ________
> 
> And I wanted to remind you of a few terms so the action makes more sense.
> 
> Pack - the largest group of blockers from both teams skating within ten feet of each other.
> 
> Blocker - a skater who tries to prevent the jammer from skating around the track and scoring points.
> 
> Jammer - the skater who skates around the track and aims to pass all of the blockers on the opposite team. A point is scored for each opposing team blocker the jammer passes. 
> 
> Lead jammer - the jammer who breaks through the pack first (no points are scored on the initial break through. The lead jammer controls the jam and can call it off at any time, unless in the penalty box.
> 
> Jam - or round. Each jam lasts a maximum of two minutes, if the lead jammer does not call it off. Blockers and jammers may be swapped out in between each jam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi ho, everyone!! I hope you're all enjoying the story and that life, such as it is at this point, is good. Once again, it is my greatest wish that this chapter bring you solace and the chance to forget you troubles, if only for a few moments. I send it to you with all my love.
> 
> Now, what will John's first bout bring? His first time in the heat of the competition and with Rock City's arch rivals, no less. Suffice it to say, you'll be meeting another familiar face in this one and the very first paragraph sets up the character straight away. Heh heh.
> 
> That said, I give you chapter 4...

_ That girl is poison.  Never trust a big butt and smile.  Poison.  She's dangerous. _

_ \-- Biv Devoe, Poison _

John blows out a nervous breath as fans deliver a never-ending and utterly deafening cheer around the stadium. KISS’s Detroit Rock City blares from all the speakers while skaters line up on the track for another jam. The music stops and noise dies down a bit only when the timer calls ten seconds, and then a bit more when the whistle is blown and jammers begin working through the pack. John has been with the Rock City Rollers exactly 46 days and tonight is the first bout of the season, his first one ever. He was taken aback by the force of the hits delivered during practice and is completely gobsmacked now. The ladies have taken their play to a whole new level. It does not help that the season opener is always a battle royale between Rock City and the Detroit Demons, the one team Rock City most reviles. Tempers are flaring and hits border on illegal, but no one has been hurt and there have been amazingly few penalties. Even Sherlock does not seem immune to the tension and dislike. Every muscle in his body is tight as ripcord and his voice pinched when the other team’s coach spoke with him before the bout began. The man had taunted him and his team, and Sherlock responded in kind. The funny thing about it was how highbrow the whole thing was. The insults were far more witty than any John had heard on the ice, even among the doctors he had worked with. He wondered if it was normal for derby or just these two men. Most likely, the latter. In any case, John had determined from that one interaction that James Moriarty is a Grade A bastard.

John tightens his fists as Witch Hazel goes down and rolls off the track. The player who hit her penalized and heading for the box as she gets back to her feet. She is back on the track in seconds and John lets his fingers loosen a little. Most hits have been legal, but ruthless. John cannot believe how quickly each of the ladies pops back up after falling. The level of violence from both teams is staggering. Knee and elbow pads, wrist guards just don’t seem like enough to protect the skaters, but none have needed medical attention thus far. John checked them all over during halftime while Sherlock talked strategy. None of it made any sense to John, but what he did notice was the absence of acknowledgement when it came to the physicality of the bout. The coach’s only remarks on it were keep it clean and stay out of the box. There is clearly no love lost between these two teams or coaches and John does not begrudge them. The way Moriarty spoke to Sherlock and the way his eyes traveled down Sherlock’s body made John instantly dislike him. The man’s demeanor during the bout has done nothing to alter John’s opinion. Moriarty seems to quietly congratulate hard-hitting skaters coming off a jam and John is positive the man signals his players. Not the way Sherlock does, but to tell them who to target and where to hit. John might worry more, but he knows none of it is lost on Sherlock. In fact, Sherlock probably has a plan for it since Rock City has played this team so many times before. 

The whistle blows again. The Woman has called the jam and everyone but Bone Crusher and Ginger Smacks skates out. Trixie Belt’em and HardOn Skates go in with Mollyscious Intent as their jammer. Sherlock calls out to stay low and Molly gives him a nod. Rock City may have more bruises, but they are also ahead by 25 points. 

“Ten seconds!” shouts the official timer. 

All skaters are in position, poised to stuff both jammers and keep them behind the pack. The whistle blows and the action begins. The ten women push and shove viciously, the pack moving forward slowly as they do. Suddenly, Molly finds a hole and bursts through to a cheer from the crowd. Meanwhile, Crusher lingers around the trio of blockers from the other team as they wait for Molly to come around the track. Their names are Ring’er Belle, Death StartUp and Smack Krackle Pop. Together they are a wall and have been on the track every time Molly has been in as jammer. Mary, still sidelined, told John that Moriarty has always handpicked blockers for Molly and John can’t help but feel ill at ease whenever these three skaters are on the track.

As Molly flies around to the pack, John glances at Sherlock to see if he feels the same. If he does, he does not show it. John looks back to the track just in time to see Molly screaming toward the pack. She signals Crusher and kicks out for more speed, coming in hotter than ever. John clenches his jaw and can feel his teeth grinding away. Crusher moves to go after Belle and StartUp as Krackle shifts her position to better take the hit Molly is about to deliver. John sees it coming just after Sherlock does. 

“Molly!” they both yell, nearly in the same voice.

Just before Molly arrives to the pack, StartUp pulls back and Crusher lurches forward, putting her and Belle right in Molly’s path. It all happens so quickly. Molly slams into the other two women, her face careening into Belle’s elbow and StartUp tightening her fingers around the back of Molly’s neck to try and keep from falling with them. Or forcing Molly’s nose into a harder impact?

All four women go down in a heap. Molly’s hands are on her own face instantly, trying to catch the blood flowing from her nose. John and Sherlock are there in seconds, the doctor falling to his knees next to Molly. To his credit, Sherlock stays back and out of John’s way. He knows he must give the doctor space, in spite of his worry and John is thankful for it.

“Are you all right?” the coach asks Crusher, helping her to her feet. The other skaters on the track drop to one knee, that jam blown dead just after the collision. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Crusher catches her breath. “I’m fine.”

“You girls all right?” Moriarty’s cool voice sounds above the crowd noise. The Rock City fans are booing loudly, but quiet down soon enough for the injury time out. The two Demons nod as they rise. “What about yours, Sherrrrlock? Star player okay? I’d hate to see her leave the track for good.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Sherlock growls at the gleam in his eye.

John hears the exchange vaguely, but his focus lies elsewhere. He has a white cloth over Molly’s nose and mouth that quickly stains crimson. He prevents her from rising while asking about dizziness and pain. His finger is moving from side to side in front of Molly’s face while her eyes follow by the time Sherlock looks their way again.

“How is she?” he asks, keeping the concern John knows is there from his voice. 

“Help me get her off the track,” John responds. Each man takes an arm and lifts as she pushes to her feet. Upon rising, the silent crowd explodes into cheers and cries of ‘We love you, Mollyscious!’ She gives a thumbs up in response. “Easy, Molly. Easy now.”

John swaps out the bloody cloth for a fresh one and continues his examination once the trio is on the Rock City bench. Sherlock sends Witch Hazel in as jammer and a new jam begins. He only turns away from the action at the sound of John’s voice saying his name.

“I’m taking her to the locker room. It could be a concussion,” he says. He rests a hand on the coach’s arm at his look of alarm. “It’s unlikely, but I want to be sure. She’s okay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s grey eyes are steely again and he nods before turning away. The bout continues and Sherlock puts all of his focus on it, carefully closing Molly into a quiet room in his mind palace. He has no doubt she is in good hands with John Watson and the Rock City Rollers need a coach with his mind on the track. 

As the minutes tick away, Rock City punishes the Demons with points scored and hard hits. The matchups between these two teams are always ruthless, but the anger bubbling up within every one of the ladies after the loss of their captain makes this bout look like one from the 1960s and 1970s when rules were not clearly defined and sometimes not even observed. Rock City treads the line between legal and not for the remainder of the second half. Only two penalties are served by either team, but a lot of bruises are doled out.

When the whistle blows, Rock City wins by a crushing 160 to 101. A hoot that starts the crowd cheering bursts from HardOn’s lips. The Demons skate off the track to their bench as all of the ladies meet on the track, hugging and raising fists in the air. Sherlock joins in the celebration and they all cheer for their coach. As he turns in a circle within the center of the team, Moriarty catches his eye to give him a mock salute. Sherlock ignores him and returns his attention to Rock City. He calls them all together, leading them in the team chant.

“Ladies! One, two, three…”

“D R C Woo!” the entire stadium screams in victory and the sound is deafening. Sherlock smiles to himself, knowing Molly can hear it from the locker room and knows her teammates carried the day. However, the smile fades when he catches another glimpse of Moriarty stepping onto the track. Sherlock furrows his brow and does his duty, although he hates extending any pleasantries to the Demons.

“Ladies, line up!” his deep baritone booms into the crowd of skaters. Somehow they all hear him over noise and ready themselves to shake hands with the other team. The two coaches linger at the end of the lines until they finally meet.

“Pleasure to beat you, Jim,” Sherlock smirks.

“You forget, we meet again, Sherlock,” he growls. “And we will crush you.”

He pulls Sherlock’s hand where they are cordially shaking them and draws close, looking straight into his grey eyes.

“I will burn the heart out of you,” he whispers urgently, deadly. 

Sherlock pulls away and puts some space in between himself and the shorter man. He meets the intense dark brown eyes with his own frown, brows furrowed and continues to watch Moriarty as they both follow their teams to the locker rooms. Once all of the ladies are safely away, Sherlock makes his way through the skaters as they whoop and congratulate one another. Harry grabs him around the waist and lifts him off his feet, in spite of her shorter stature. 

“Harry! For god sake, put me down!” he squirms.

“Not on your life!” she cries and the whole room cheers. “It’s your own fault for being such a lanky bastard! You make it too easy.”

Harry swings him around, his feet sometimes barely clearing benches and lockers. She loudly declares him the best coach in the whole derby racket. Everyone cheers and laughs and she finally puts him down. It is a gross exaggeration, of course, but he can appreciate the sentiment.

Back on his feet, Sherlock jumps up onto one of the benches to congratulate the team and spur them on for the rest of the season. As he speaks, the energy in the room rises in spite of the fatigue a bout creates. He looks out into the sea of faces and sees determination and strength, dedication and spirit, and he knows they can take this all the way to the championships.

“This is what a team is,” he tells them. “It is trust and camaraderie, depending on a teammate as much as she depends on you. We can do this. And this is the best, the perfect way to start the season. You all exemplify the dedication and passion of champions. This team, every one of you, never ceases to amaze me. Well done.”

Cheers and shouts of hooray fill the room. 

“We are gonna take the whole goddamn championship!” Hella yells above the din and makes it louder. 

Harry reaches for him again, but Sherlock ducks away and is only skimmed by her fingertips. He weaves his way through the ladies again and finally reaches the door that leads to the medic room, but he finds it empty. Frowning, Sherlock pulls his phone from the pocket of his suit coat and dials John’s number. It rings and rings. The sound of the door opening behind catches his attention as his call goes to voicemail. Sherlock turns to see Greg standing before him with a grave expression on his face.

“Greg?” he says, slowly lowering the phone from his ear. “Something’s happened.”

“It’s Molly,” he answers.

“Tell me,” Sherlock straightens his spine, every muscle hard as steel.

“Sherlock…” he pauses and shakes his head. “She passed out and stopped breathing.”

“What?” Sherlock’s eyes fill with disbelief and shock.

“It all happened so fast. We called an ambulance from Ford. John went with her.”

***

Sherlock is out of the elevator as soon as the doors open. He walks briskly down the third floor hall of Ford Hospital. His penetrating grey eyes stare straight ahead at the nurse’s station. He had entered the hospital through the ER and was told Miss Hooper and her doctor were on the third floor in the east wing. She had been admitted,  _ obviously _ , but they would not give him her room number and said he had to check in at the nurse’s station on the floor. Irritated by unwilling to waste time arguing, Sherlock made for the east wing. It is not the wing injured skaters typically stay in, being for far more serious cases and that has Sherlock scared. There is no other word for it and his mind is racing with the possibilities.

Sherlock’s black dress shoes click angrily as he strides through the hall. A nurse at the station watches him with interest as he approaches.

“Can I help you?” she asks skeptically when he stops before her.

“Yes, I need the room number for Molly Hooper,” he answers sharply. “She was injured at the roller derby and I am her coach.”

“Ah, yes,” she says in a friendlier tone. “We were told to expect you. The doctor wants to speak with you before you see her.”

“Her doctor is with her,” Sherlock replies with an edge to his tone.

“Mm-hm,” the woman hums dismissively, shuffling papers on the desk. Sherlock is about to argue his point when a short, rotund man hurries toward him with his arms extended.

“Sherlock,” he says in an urgent voice that is laced with worry, “Greg said you were on your way.”

“Mike,” the coach’s entire demeanor changes. He breathes a sigh of relief and lets the man’s presence take the edge off the tension. “I didn’t think you would be here this late.”

“Shouldn’t be, but I have a case right now that’s got me here 24/7. I’m glad my wife is in New Jersey helping her sister move. She’d have my head,” he grins, but it does not reach his eyes and the strain around them does not lessen. Sherlock studies his friend as he explains the night’s events, observing all the signs of stress and fatigue. Dark circles under the eyes, bloodshot sclera, a pale pallor to constantly pink cheeks.

“But John knows I always look after the ladies when they’re here. Good man. Had lunch with him earlier this week, in fact,” Mike wipes a hand across his forehead. “I would’ve come in for this regardless.”

“Come in for what? What is going on?” Sherlock freezes, every muscle tightening again. His brain seizes and grows cold in an instant. Mike cannot mean that the way it sounds. He absolutely can not.

“No, no, no!” Mike sees the change in Sherlock immediately and puts his hands on the taller man’s shoulders. “She’s okay. She’s going to be fine. John kept her breathing at the stadium and on the way here. We stabilized her after they arrived.”

Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief and confusion. Greg had said Molly was not breathing, but it doesn’t make any sense. Even a concussion would not do that, unless brain damage occurs and that is very unlikely. Sherlock tries to sift through all possible scenarios as Mike speaks, stopping only when he hears Mike say…

“...never would have known the cause if he hadn’t wanted that blood test and when it came back positive for…”

“Doctor Stamford,” a nurse says suddenly. They both see her grim expression and Mike turns to Sherlock again, face heavy with worry.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I have to go,” he and the nurse hurry away, but he looks back before turning the corner. “345. John will fill you in . Sorry.”

And he is gone. Sherlock blinks, staring after him, fury boiling in his blood. What. The fuck. Is John Watson thinking. Ordering a blood test? And for what, exactly? Suspecting Molly would use drugs to enhance her performance, or for any other reason, is reprehensible. The idea that any of the ladies would do it, or that Sherlock would be stupid enough not notice instantly and deal with it is absurd and incredibly insulting, but suspecting Molly is beyond comprehension. Surely John knows that by now.

Sherlock sees red as he marches through the hall, every fiber of his being aflame as he follows the numbers to 345. He nearly kicks the door open when he arrives and bursts in, fury burning the blood that pulses through his veins.

Molly sleeps peacefully in the bed, tubing on all sides and resting under her nose. John jumps up from his seat at the side of the bed at Sherlock’s dramatic entrance. He steps forward, but stops after getting a good look at the coach’s face. Seeing the fury plain on his features, the doctor frowns and squares his shoulders to the taller man’s.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock booms. “You have no call to suspect Molly of drug use! Have you learned nothing? You have been here over a month and  **this** is what you assume? If this is what you think of her…”

“What? No, Sherlock, that’s not…”

“Stay the fuck away from my team.”

“...why I wanted the blood test.”

“I will kick your ass if you ever try to set foot in the stadium again.”

“I was looking for arsenicosis.”

Sherlock, who had been rapidly advancing on John, now stands directly in front of him, looming down at him. He grabs him by the lapels, lifting him slightly and forcing him to his toes. The taller man leans forward, their noses mere inches apart. Sherlock blinks, his grey eyes furious and gleaming. He stares John down as he tries to process the words. His head is spinning and he tries to concentrate. Arsenicosis. It doesn’t make any sense. 

He blinks again and furrows his brow. To his credit, John does not look frightened or even angry. There is, however, great concern in those stormy, deep blue eyes.

“Arsenic poisoning.”

“I know what it is!” Sherlock snaps. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Then you know how quickly it works,” John replies, paying no mind to the coach’s behavior or their relative positions. Sherlock’s eyes are on John, but they are distant as if seeing something else entirely as the doctor continues. “She exhibited symptoms within fifteen minutes of coming off the track, cardiac arrest at twenty. A bit faster than usual, given that her heart rate was up. It was introduced right into her bloodstream. Had to be.”

“Her bloodstream?” Sherlock’s eyes focus again and the crease in his brow deepens. His hands release John’s collar and he shuffles back to put a little space between them, rolling John’s words in his mind. “Have you found puncture marks?”

“Not yet, but it’s there somewhere and I’ll find it,” John tells him firmly.

“What made you suspect arsenic?” Sherlock cannot stop himself from asking. He is incredibly intrigued, in spite of the gravity of the situation. He does not simply want to know what happened to Molly, but also how the doctor arrived to that conclusion. One could easily mistake and dismiss the symptoms for the results of physical exertion only. Redness of the skin, and tingling fingers and toes would have seemed like adrenaline left over from the collision and nosebleed. It might even produce nausea and muscle cramps. But even once Molly had gone into cardiac arrest, what would make John even consider arsenic?

“Molly’s a very healthy woman. I thought it was all part of the adrenaline, slamming into people and the like, but when she stopped breathing,” John shakes his head. “I started CPR and thought over everything that happened from track to arrest. Given the reaction and the time frame, all the signs were there. It had to be arsenic.”

Sherlock is not sure what to say. The woman who is like a sister to him, his best friend, his whole life, came as close to death as he has ever seen. His soft eyes have not left John’s face and are filled with more emotion than Sherlock could ever express in a lifetime. John seems to understand and acknowledges it silently with a slow nod.

“I had them test for other poisons too,” he says gently. “Just in case.”

“But you knew you wouldn’t be wrong,” Sherlock responds in a low tone. John nods once. 

“And it was introduced on the track,” John states matter of factly. “Or just after she came off.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, pressing his lips together in a thin line. He studies John. Studies him so thoroughly that he can hide nothing. Deduces. Why would poisoning even be on the table? Another second and the deduction hits. Sherlock’s eyes go wide and his face slackens. His mouth drops open in disbelief.

“She told you,” he whispers, his eyes falling shut.

“Damn right she did,” John replies in a tone so certain he could be heading into battle. Sherlock’s eyes snap open again to see John standing tall, shoulders back, meeting Sherlock’s gaze with sharp eyes. He looks every bit a doctor ready to give orders and save the day. “She was concerned, but she wouldn’t have imagined this in her wildest dreams.”

Sherlock sighs sadly and lowers his eyes to the woman sleeping peacefully beside them. Stepping away from John and closer to the bed, he takes Molly’s hand in his and holds it as he would the most delicate thing on the planet. He tilts his head and takes in every feature of her face, the paleness of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes. He brushes a lock of hair from her forehead gently.

“She told me of her suspicions,” he begins in a hushed voice. “I thought the ladies she mentioned had been careless. They aren’t the most careful of the bunch.” He sighs. ”It had only happened two or three times at that point. I dismissed it, but then it happened twice more. I just didn’t have enough data and told her as much.”

“She mentioned that,” the doctor nods.

“John,” Sherlock’s eyes are suddenly filled with desperation, “I’m not in the locker rooms when they’re getting ready for a bout. I come in to talk and lead them out once skates are on. I don’t monitor equipment. I leave it to them as part of their jobs. I was only just beginning to get more of that information from Molly. She was my eyes and ears.”

His eyes fall to her countenance once more, glistening with tears. John’s expression softens and he moves closer to the bed, to the coach.

“Sherlock, I’m not trying to blame you and you shouldn’t blame yourself either,” he tells the man firmly. “Molly certainly won’t. You listened. You were trying. The two of you were working together.”

Sherlock looks up and gazes at him for a long time. It feels like forever. But he finally lifts his chin and swallows hard, his eyes full of determination instead of sadness and worry.

“She is going to be okay.” 

It is not a question and yet, something in Sherlock’s face is asking. John lets his shoulders ease, the corners of his mouth curling the slightest bit.

“Yes, we caught it in time,” he says solemnly. “She won’t wake until tomorrow night and she’ll need to stay here for a week or two, maybe more. It depends on her recovery. She will not be skating. It’s quite a shock to the system.”

Sherlock remains silent and nods. A tear slips from his eye when he blinks and trickles slowly down his cheek. He bends down and presses his lips to Molly’s forehead, uttering ‘I’m sorry’ in a deep voice that is not even a whisper. 

“Sherlock,” John touches his shoulder and those all-seeing grey eyes meet his own, “she’ll be okay.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispers, another tear gliding down his pale skin. John shifts and removes his hand.

“I’ll give you two a minute.”

Sherlock’s lips turn up in a small smile as he thanks John again.

***

Nearly two hours later, John sits at a small table in the cafeteria. Reading a book on his phone, he pays no mind to any of the people walking around him until a tall figure steps right up to the opposite chair and stops. John raises his gaze to see Sherlock Holmes. He straightens in his seat and greets his colleague, gesturing to the other chair.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says again as he sits and pushes a coffee cup toward John, holding his own in the other hand. “Milk, no sugar.”

“Thanks,” John looks at him in surprise. ”How did you…”

“John,” he interrupts with an almost pitying look, “surely you know the answer to that question.”

“Right,” John watches him take a sip from his own cup. Sherlock’s eyes are a bit red, but not too puffy. No one would even notice if they hadn’t seen him in Molly’s room. John leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You okay?”

“Yes. Better.”

John waits. Sherlock returns his gaze, but remains unreadable. John wishes he had the man’s power of observation. Sure, he does all right. He learned how to watch and see things others would not, but not the way Sherlock does. What the man does is uncanny. God, John would love to know how Sherlock really feels about all of this. Maybe then he could approach this next subject with more confidence. John is hesitant to admit that he was already helping Molly and had taken her advice in visiting the team’s former physician, but it is information that Sherlock needs to know to have the full picture. He can only hope the coach does not take it as an intrusion.

“Shortly after I started here, Molly suggested I speak to a William Wiggins,” John says carefully.

“Billy?” Sherlock asks evenly. Only a slight widening of his eyes betrays his surprise. “And did you?”

“A few weeks ago, yeah.”

“How is he? I haven’t seen him for some time. But that is by design, of course,” Sherlock mutters wryly.

“Good,” John’s voice rises in tone as he studies Sherlock. Will he see his obvious exclusion as a slight? John spent a great deal of time after his visit with Billy wondering if Sherlock could be the ally Billy suggested. John wets his lower lip and then bites it. “He confirmed Molly’s suspicions.”

The coach raises a brow, the coffee cup hiding his mouth.

“Well, only in the sense that he agrees someone was trying to sabotage the team,” he corrects and pauses. Anticipating Sherlock’s questions, he adds, “and still is. He didn’t have real proof, no.”

Sherlock places the cup on the table and remains silent. He wears a different expression though. The look in his eye, it’s… He almost looks impressed. The corners of John’s lips quirk up into a smile that he quickly tamps down because humor has no place in what he is about to say.

“He also confirmed that he was poisoned.”

Sherlock’s eyes go very wide this time. John leans forward more and licks his lips again as he continues quietly. 

“You knew.”

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t think you do.”

“He wanted to keep it a secret so I let him think he was.”

“Molly knows too.”

“Obvious.”

John’s mouth twists in annoyance and he juts his chin out a bit as he turns his head abruptly, looking away from the snarky coach. Sherlock presses his lips together in a thin line and lets out a long, slow sigh. He leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his curls. They fall over his forehead artfully once free from his fingers. He glances away and then back at John contritely, a silent apology.

“I should have told Molly I knew. I’ve never kept anything from her before,” he leans forward, elbows on the table. “I couldn’t find any useful information from the alleged accidents before Billy left and then there weren’t anymore. Two months left in the season and not a single mishap.”

“Like someone knew you were onto them.”

“Or wanted me to believe Billy was responsible,” Sherlock sneers.

“Was Anderson hired before or after the season ended?”

“Just after. Greg asked Mike to stand in for the remainder of the season. We have a month-long break after and start in again on an easier schedule for another month or so.”

“And nothing happened while Anderson was here?”

“No,” Sherlock scowls. “Nothing he didn’t do himself.”

“And now this on the first bout of the season,” John thinks aloud. “My first bout.”

They stare at one another without blinking. Sherlock breaks into a grin, his grey eyes sparkling and John sees green flecks scattered in the irises. He has never noticed them before, probably because he never paid much attention. Why is he now? They are beautiful. In fact, Sherlock’s eyes are absolutely stunning.

“Someone doesn’t like Mrs. Hudson’s choice of doctors.”

“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, right,” John puts more weight on his forearms leaning further forward. “Since I spoke with Billy, I’ve been trying to learn more about everything that’s happened, picking Molly’s brain for facts. I’ve read all of Billy’s notes and asked questions of the ladies who were injured. I’ve watched practices for anything suspicious, and footage of bouts where skaters were injured.”

“Practices?” Sherlock interrupts him, narrowing his eyes. The sparkle instantly replaced with dark clouds of simmering anger. “Are you saying you suspect one of the ladies?”

“No, not at all,” John answers truthfully. “I wanted to be there if something happened or someone who shouldn’t be around was.”

“I did much the same after Billy left,” Sherlock confesses as the clouds fade away. “I watched every bout as closely as I could and scrutinized stadium staff. Uh, don’t mention that to Greg. It might have involved breaking into his office.”

“You didn’t,” John smiles mischievously. When Sherlock merely shrugs, a puff of laughter bursts from John’s lips. He continues to laugh quietly and the coach soon joins him. “Billy was right. You’ll face the devil himself for the ladies.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Sherlock laughs.

“Yeah, it is,” John grins and is suddenly more serious, “but it isn’t.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock’s eyes fall to his own arms, which are crossed on the table in front of him. A certain sadness has returned to his features. John reaches for the man’s hand and covers it with his own. Sherlock’s head rises quickly at the touch.

“You couldn’t have known Molly would be a target,” John tells him solemnly. “There was no reason to think anyone would be poisoned again.”

“I know, John,” he smiles sadly, “but that doesn’t make it easier.”

John nods and drops his gaze to their hands. He tilts his head to the left as he begins to realize how easily his fits over Sherlock’s, in spite of the different sizes. They fit so well together. The coach’s skin is soft and warm. It feels alive and welcoming under John’s fingers.

“I will find out who did this,” Sherlock says suddenly, deadly serious.

The doctor nods once.

“We’ll do it together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, Jane!! Not Molly! WTF are you doing?! Weren't you just telling Pat and Franc how much you love her friendship with Sherlock? Why would you try to off her, you bitch? Yes, I know. I'm evil, pure and simple. But she's okay, friends. It'll all be fine. The real question is who did it and how? On the track? Immediately after? But I get ahead of myself. I'm skipping straight to the question portion of this end note.
> 
> What did you all think of one, James Moriarty? Grade A Bastard, as John thinks? Not sure yet? Well, we shall see. Trust that this is not his only appearance in this fun little fic. He's like a bad penny. He always turns up. Oooooo! It's so much fun to quote Indiana Jones. He is the pinnacle of hot. THE MAN, my bestie and I used to call him, in spite of the fact that he is the same age as our fathers.
> 
> Anyway, question time!  
> 1\. As I was saying, who is the culprit and how was it done?  
> 2\. Considering the timing and all, was it one of Moriarty's crew or someone with Rock City?  
> 3\. Will Moriarty be back (already told us that one, Jane) and will he cause trouble for our intrepid duo? They are working together now, after all. And we all breathe a sigh of relief.  
> 4\. Speaking of our duo, will they grow ever closer now that they are working the derby racket AND trying to solve this mystery together? (If you know me, and you do, you already know the answer to that question too.)
> 
> Oh, so many more questions, Jane, so many. I'll let you sort them out, but please feel free to ask me anything.  
> Until next time, my friends. Keep your stick on the ice. (I watched a most excellent winter classic from 2008. They went into double OT and the penguins won on the stick of Crosby in a shootout! My god, it was fantastic!) We're all in this together.  
> Love, Jane


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long day, John visits Molly in the hospital and goes home to his flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovelies! I've missed you from one weekend to the next. This week went by so quickly too. I can hardly believe it. Like all of you, I'm trying to get used to a new schedule, kids being home from school and trying to home school them. God, what a time to realize I'm not cut out to be a teacher. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope this chapter affords you all a little respite. It is a bit of a short one. Sorry about that, but the next is more the normal length. Maybe if I can get it edited faster than usual, I could post it before the next weekend is upon us. I shall do my best.
> 
> Before I turn you loose, I just wanted to thank you all for your love and support. Thank you for all the kudos and comments. Each and every one touches my heart and keeps my spirits up. I love and appreciate all of you, whether you've read everything so far or just one chapter. You all mean the world to me. Thank you and enjoy!

_ But someone was waiting in the shadows of the night.  Someone was waiting. It just didn’t feel right. _

_ Danger on the track. Something told me there were strangers on my back and I was so right. _

_ \--Europe, Danger on the Track _

Eight bouts later, four of which were John’s first away experiences, and he really does see the similarities between derby and hockey. The schedule is just as intense and punishing. Limbs need to be iced, soaked and stretched post-bout just like hockey. It makes for some truly long nights, especially when the team travels. There are nights when he has never been more happy to collapse into a hotel bed in his life. 

He finds himself wishing he could do just that after a long day at the stadium, but in his own bed, of course. It was just a normal day of practice and the like, no bouts, but it was still busier than usual and John did not make it out of the building until far later than he had planned. John feels drained and drowsy as he drives to Ford Hospital for his typical Wednesday and Sunday visits to Molly. He tries to go more often, being her doctor and all, but bouts and intensified practices make it difficult. Fortunately, Mike is always there to keep an eye on her. John has no idea what kind of case forces Mike to be at Ford all the time, but he is grateful for the help with Molly’s care.

She had woken the night following the bout, just as John had said. It was clear the poison had taken its toll because she was disoriented and unable to coordinate her muscles enough to move much. She had started to panic when she tried moving and could not, her heart rate skyrocketing. It would have been worse had Sherlock not been there. He held her hand to ground her and explained the situation carefully, leaving nothing out. He repeated it the subsequent three nights and again on the fourth when she could finally both comprehend and retain the information. On that night, Molly was coherent enough to ask questions and she tried to answer all of Sherlock’s. He told her their theories on how the poison was administered and when - right before she got on the track, during the jam, or just after the collision. It could have been nothing less than a puncture, but Molly did not recall feeling any such thing.

John and Sherlock had discussed it after Molly was resting again. The coach was convinced one of Moriarty’s skaters had done it under his orders. Even when John reminded him of all the people helping Molly off the track, each one having opportunity, Sherlock would not entertain any other possibility. It was all John could do to keep the man from going directly to the Demons’ stadium and accusing Moriarty face to face. John had heard a lot of stories about the rivalry, HardOn having told the majority and quite colorfully too, but John still did not know how it all started. It ran deep on both sides though, that much was obvious.

With all of these thoughts playing out in his mind, John pulls into the hospital lot and parks. He sits for a moment, considering it all carefully. Perhaps Molly would tell him more if he asked. She would certainly be a more accurate source than HardOn, but would asking her be an invasion of Sherlock’s privacy? He inhales deliberately and turns off the car, shaking his head as he does so, his decision already made. If he wants to know how the two men became so antagonistic toward one another, he should ask Sherlock himself.

Moments later, John is out of his car and walking into Ford Hospital. He boards the elevator and then emerges on the third floor. Soon he is smiling at the two floor nurses on night duty as he approaches the station.

“Hello, Madge,” he greets brightly. “Bianca. How’s our patient tonight?”

“Much better, John,” Bianca answers with a matching smile. “She’s done more today than any other.”

“Good! That’s good.”

“Awfully tired now though,” Madge continues, ”but she’s trying so hard to stay awake. She wants to see you.”

“Well, I’ll just go see if she’s still up, shall I?” he gives them a nod and goes to Molly’s room. Knocking on the door lightly, John leans in to listen for her to grant entrance and a man’s voice comes to his ears instead. He sounds angry. John shoves the door open in a rush of protective fury to see nothing but Molly sleeping soundly in her bed. He stands for a moment, brow furrowed in confusion. At the sound of a familiar and measured female voice, his eyes drift up and to the side to see a television set mounted from the ceiling, Angela Lansbury on its screen. John smiles and closes the door. He walks to Molly’s bedside, carefully pulls the remote from her fingers and presses the power button.

“Of course you’d be a fan of Murder, She Wrote,” he whispers, looking at Molly fondly. “I heard you’re doing much better today. I’ve never had a better patient, you know.”

He looks down at her hand again and gently takes it in his own, watching as one of her fingers twitches. He glances to the other and something held in her fingers catches his eye. 

“Hello, what’s this?”

John slides the folded piece of paper out from beneath her index and middle fingers. His name is written on it, so he unfolds and reads. He looks back at Molly with wide, startled eyes and a million questions race through his mind. As much as he wants to ask her every single one and now, he is not about to wake her. She needs to rest and recover.

Folding the note and putting it in his jacket pocket, John pats Molly’s hand and whispers good night. He bids the nurses farewell and hurries out to his car again. He turns right out of the lot, the opposite direction of his flat, but exactly the way to Sherlock’s. However, he has only gone a few blocks before thinking better of it. What the hell is he doing? It is ten o’clock at night after a long day. If Sherlock is not in bed already, he will be soon, certainly before John gets there. As important as Molly’s note is, it will keep until morning.

That decided, and coming to his senses, John turns into a gas station parking lot and turns the car around. In minutes, he has parked in the designated spot at his building and is riding in the lift. He usually takes the stairs, but suddenly feels all of the day’s events pressing down on him in full force. John trudges to his door and unlocks it, throwing off his coat as soon as he is inside. He goes to the kitchen, lifting the jumper over his head as he goes and tossing it on the counter. He scratches his chest through the white t-shirt he wears with one hand and opens the refrigerator door with the other. John takes out a carton of orange juice and reaches for a cupboard handle before stopping.

“Oh, fuck it,” he says to himself, opening the carton and taking a long drink straight from the spout. He looks at the brightly colored oranges on the side and sighs. Sometimes he truly believes it is the most refreshing beverage on the planet, second to none.

John sets the carton on the counter and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He picks up the remote and points it over the breakfast bar into the living room. The telly springs to life with the faces of the evening news. John does not pay much attention to the local anchors and heads down the hall to his bedroom where he kicks off his shoes and pulls down his trousers, leaving them bunched on the floor as he continues walking. 

Sauntering back to the kitchen in nothing but a tee and plaid boxer shorts, John stands by the bar and takes another swig of orange juice. Shannon Duffy, the meteorologist is detailing the coming of an unseasonable cold front and John watches, but his mind is elsewhere. He feels like he should call Sherlock, in spite of the hour. He does not know why, but John feels as though something depends on it. What, he doesn’t know because Molly is just fine and sleeping comfortably in her room.

Giving into the notion, John picks up his mobile only to have it violently knocked from his grasp. An arm wraps around his neck and the barrel of a gun thrusts into his kidneys painfully. He gasps and time stops as the arm presses hard into his throat. He feels a warm breath in the shell of his ear and then a voice, dark and low.

“I would’ve let you go all the way. Wouldn’t mind seeing what’s under that shirt one bit,” it threatens in a hoarse whisper. The gun moves down his spine, bruising as it goes, until it rests at the top of his buttocks. The tip of the barrel catches on the waistband of his boxers and pushes them down an inch, digging into the top of one cheek painfully. An inhalation pulls air over John’s ear and a humid breath blows back out. He flinches his head away a touch, but the voice is still in his ear. “But you’re late and I have a schedule to keep.”

John blinks his eyes wide and sucks in a sharp breath. He knows what is about to happen. He squeezes his eyes shut for a split second and braces his hands on the counter before him. John suddenly pushes himself back and into the man, throwing them both backward into the opposite counter. He feels a surprised puff of breath by his ear and a sharp pain in the side of his hip. John pulls free from the man and launches himself over the bar, just missing the stools and landing hard on the floor. He jumps up, in spite of the pain, and runs down the hall to his room, hearing a quiet chirp and feeling a whoosh of air at his cheek. He slams the door behind and locks it. Without stopping for a second, John runs for the window, throws it open and leaps out onto the fire escape. John doesn’t hear a shot, but the doorknob flies into the room and the door is kicked open. John puts a hand on either side of the ladder and slides down to the next landing. He steps quickly to the next ladder, knowing he only has the second or two it will take his attacker to cross the bedroom floor before more bullets come.

Without looking up, John slides down to the ground and ducks into the shadows of the alley in between his building and the next. He hears heavy footsteps on the fire escape that rumble down the ladders and land not far from him. He tucks farther into the darkness and holds his breath. He can see his attacker clearly now, head to toe in black with a mask over his face. Only his eyes and mouth are visible and he wears such a sneer as John has ever seen. 

John watches as the man searches the alley. He comes very close to John, who is in near panic and trying not to move or even breathe, when the man suddenly curses and turns away. He jogs down the alley in the opposite direction and is gone. John waits, not daring to make even the slightest noise. For the second time that night, a thousand questions run through his mind at breakneck speed. How will he know the man is really gone? Will he reappear if John comes out of hiding? Who is this guy and what does he want? Just what the hell is John going to do now? He can’t go back to his flat, even if the man is unlikely to pay him another visit. Or would he go back into the flat and wait for John to return? John suddenly gasps audibly and his blood runs cold. Pay him a visit. Suppose that man pays someone else a visit. A person he thinks John might go to for help.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” John whispers into the silent alley. He glances this way and that and pops out of the shadows, hurrying to the parking lot. He ducks down next to his car and pulls a spare key from where he had secured it after he bought it. An old trick his father taught him back in the day. John has never actually lost his keys, but his dad often did and needed a little extra insurance.

When John rises as high as he dares to look around for any sign of the man, he unlocks the door quickly and climbs in. Starting the car and backing out of his spot, he turns and heads to the very place he had talked himself out of going only moments before. The flat belonging to Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, Jane! AGAIN! We can't take all this suspense! First Molly and now John! *swoon*
> 
> Heh heh. You all knew John was on the hit list after what happened with Billy, yikes! A man dressed in black lurking in his flat, waiting to kill him? That's a few steps up from poisoning. And how about our John, eh? Even without the military background, he has mad skillz. But can he do it a second time? Can he do the same for Sherlock once he gets to his condo? Wait, wait! I'm getting ahead of myself, which can mean only one thing. Question time!
> 
> 1\. Can John do the same for Sherlock once he gets to his condo?  
> 2\. Will he beat the man to the condo?  
> 3\. What will he find there if he doesn't?  
> 4\. What was in Molly's note and will John even remember it after all this?
> 
> Oh, so many questions and I'm sure you have some of your own as well. Feel free to ask. I'm always happy to chat.  
> Until we meet again... Stay safe. Stay healthy Do what you can to keep your mind and heart happy.   
> Love, Jane


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives at Sherlock's apartment in the dead of night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! I hope this chapter finds you all safe and well. I'm sorry I didn't get it out earlier in the week after the last short and suspenseful chapter. The editing gods would not cooperated with me until last night and this morning. One promise I can keep is that chapter 7 is definitely a long one to make up for the last with a lot of good interaction between our two leading men. I don't think I've made a secret of this, but I love dialogue. I try to give enough description so you know what's going on and where they are, but I'll never write the wonderfully poetic prose other Johnlockers make into an art. Hm. Not really sure why I decided to share that bit of information. Must be feeling introspective. You caught me in more the philosophy mindset instead of my usual Deadpool. Haha.
> 
> Without further ado..

_'Cause love's such an old fashioned word and love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night_

_and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves. This is our last dance. This is our last dance._

_This is ourselves under pressure._

_\--Queen, Under Pressure_

_Weight and power establish velocity. Assign a figure for each skater based upon average velocity and it further simplifies the equation. If power equals…_

Sherlock’s eyes snap open when a loud bang reaches his ears. He is lying on the over-sized sage green couch in the condo’s living room. Sherlock bought it knowing he would spend hours on it within his mind palace, likely falling asleep on it most nights. He frowns mightily when he hears the bang again.

Glancing at the wall clock and furrowing his brow, Sherlock considers who the hell would come to his door at this hour. Greg? Another bang on the door and he sits up. It can’t be about Molly. He spoke with her just that evening. He had sneaked out of the stadium around 8:30 and gone straight to Ford. Well, almost. There was a stop for her favorite ice cream on the way. They had talked and joked as they ate the contraband treat.

“Seriously, Sherlock, you have to stop coming here every night,” Molly had chided. “I know you’re behind on all that extra work you do after hours. You’d have to be by now.”

“Nonsense. My calculations and strategies for upcoming bouts are coming along perfectly,” he told her around a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie dough. “Besides, there is nothing in this world that is more important to me.”

“I’m flattered,” she laughed and then took on a more serious tone. “There’s nothing wrong with letting someone else in, you know.”

“What?” he had seen her knowing expression as soon as he looked her way, even though she quickly shifted her eyes away and into her ice cream pint. “Molly, no. It’s not like that.”

She returned her gaze to him and smiled broadly. It was his turn to look away, cheeks pink. 

“Oh, come on. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

“Molly, I can’t.”

“Why on earth not? You’re equals within the organization.”

“I know, I just…” Sherlock finally met her eyes again. “I swore off that sort of sentiment after Victor. You know that. Caring about someone that deeply is not an advantage.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I know he hurt you. I’ll never forgive him for that, but you shouldn’t give up that part of yourself,” Molly touched his arm, putting her own Chubby Hubby pint in her lap. “You shouldn’t deny yourself the chance to be happy.”

“I am happy.”

“Sherlock,” she admonished. He sighed and looked down at his ice cream, prodding it with his spoon.

“You really think I should risk it?” he had asked after a moment.

“I don’t think it would be a risk with this one,” she answered solemnly.

Clearing his mind to focus on the here and now, Sherlock rises from the couch and walks briskly to the foyer as another pound to his front door sounds through the hall. He leans in close and peers into the spy hole to see John Watson’s head and torso. Sherlock steps back, his mind confused by the man’s presence and his stomach already doing those annoying flips.

“John, I wasn’t expecting…” Sherlock begins while opening the door. John pushes in, effectively shoving him out of the way and shuts the door quickly. He looks Sherlock over as though he is looking for...what? Then he scans as much of the condo as he can see from where they stand, going so far as to take a few swift steps in to peer down the hall suspiciously. Befuddled, Sherlock watches his movements closely and takes a quick step back when John suddenly advances on him.

“You’re okay?” John asks distractedly, still glancing around. “He’s not here?”

Sherlock blinks, now utterly confounded. He is about to ask John what the hell he is talking about when he finally notices what John is wearing. Sherlock typically sees everything one has to tell in a glimpse, but the combination of the doctor’s odd behavior and the effect John has on him in general, much as Sherlock hates to admit it, renders his powers of observation moot. Finally observing everything John has to tell, Sherlock finds himself astounded and more than a little confused.

John is in Sherlock’s condo, standing in right front of him in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt. A somewhat clingy t-shirt at that. One that hugs every curve and muscle and dries Sherlock’s mouth in an instant. As he swallows hard, he notices the dark red stain of blood on the tee’s shoulder right at the top of John’s arm.

“Blood,” Sherlock blurts suddenly. 

“There’s no one here,” John faces him, finally finished scanning his surroundings like a startled animal.

“You’re bleeding,” Sherlock announces, eyes now roving over John’s body and searching for other signs of injury.

“You’re alone.”

“And from your hip too.”

John puts his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and pushes him back until he bumps into the door to his condo. Sherlock looks at him with an expression of annoyance and he hopes **not** arousal. John pins him to the wall with deadly serious eyes.

“You’re sure there’s no one here? You haven’t seen anyone?”

“There’s no one here!” Sherlock’s voice raises in irritation. “Jesus, John.”

The doctor stares at Sherlock for a moment with stormy dark blue eyes that slowly begin to lighten. The anger and seriousness on his face smooths into something softer. He releases his hold on Sherlock and shuffles backwards, relieving the tension and what little space there was between their bodies. Sherlock, however, is not going to let him off that easily. He closes the gap again and touches John’s shoulder just under the blood. John flinches, but does not pull away.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“What happened?” Sherlock asks, trying no to notice the flip in his stomach at that first touch.

“What?” John looks to his shoulder to see Sherlock’s long fingers, probing around gently to get an idea where the wound is. “Ah, shit.”

“It’s fine. It’s fine. Just come with me,” Sherlock takes hold of the hand on John’s uninjured arm and guides him through the condo.

“Christ, I need to put more energy into finding a permanent flat,” John declares with humor in his voice. “This is a bloody palace.”

“It’s one of the bigger ones in this building,” Sherlock tells him as they walk. “If I’m not buying a house, I might as well still have what I like.”

“Which is?”

“Space,” he says as they enter a large bedroom with a vaulted ceiling. John stops about ten steps in and looks around the room in apprehension. Meanwhile, Sherlock drops his hand and continues walking to a door on the far wall.

“Sit,” he gestures at the bed and disappears into the en suite. He opens a cupboard and removes a plastic case. He also grabs two hand towels to sop up blood, knowing he will likely need more than the kit has to offer.

When he returns, supplies in hand, John is not sitting on the bed. He is standing stalk still right where Sherlock left him. He stares, eyes shifting around the room slowly like they are drinking in every detail. Sherlock follows his gaze to a chest of drawers and settles on the photo of him Molly that sits upon it. He looks back at John and clears his throat.

“John?” he steps forward.

“What? Oh, right,” John says, regaining his focus. He starts for the bed, but stops. “Sorry, I can’t do this. I’ll ruin your sheets.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock smirks. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Completely taken aback by the joke, John just stares for a full ten seconds while Sherlock opens the med kit. He watches as the tall man sifts through its contents in search of peroxide, gauze dressings and bandages. Sherlock observes him from the corner of his eye, wondering if John is actually going to sit down and let him tend to his wounds or needs to be prompted again. One thing, he sure as hell is going to explain how he was hurt and why he is running around Detroit in a t-shirt and underpants. Not that Sherlock is complaining, of course, but he is hardly going to tell John that.

“Do you want me to put a towel down before you sit? Because you are going to sit on the bed,” he says, meeting his wide eyes. Are his pupils bigger than the lights should allow? They are certainly beautiful. Blue like the ocean, clear and open. Then John blinks and looks down at his feet as he shifts them. 

“No, it’s…” he looks back at Sherlock with honest embarrassment. He bites his lip and it is absolutely adorable. Sherlock almost flinches when his stomach flips this time. “Actually, yeah. I’d feel better about it.”

Sherlock’s lips turn up and he huffs out a breathy laugh.

“Okay,” Sherlock heads for the en suite again and tosses a look over his shoulder. “Be right back.”

When he returns this time, John is standing closer to the bed. He looks nervous, holding one hand in the other and wringing slightly. Sherlock smiles reassuringly, trying to ease John’s mind. He steps in close and drapes a thick dark green towel on the bed. When he stands straight again, he and John are face to face, inches apart. John’s mouth is open and he is breathing more heavily than he should be. His pupils seem even larger than before. 

Sherlock shifts back, but is still close. His gaze falls to John’s chest as it rises and falls, the thin fabric of the shirt pulling taut over his pectorals. Sherlock can just make out the darker outline of a nipple before he forces his eyes back to John’s face, trying desperately not to stop on the man’s lips.

“Are you all right?” he asks quietly. “You’re breathing fast. Is it the pain?”

“What?” John replies breathlessly.

“The pain. Is it bad? Does one wound hurt more than the other?”

“No, it’s not bad,” John swallows deliberately. “They’re just flesh wounds.”

“Are they? Why don’t you sit down and let me take a look?”

“I could just do it myself.”

“John, please.”

They share a look. It is very serious and intentional. Is it Sherlock’s imagination or is there heat in John’s eyes? He is certainly trying to keep it from his own. His hand is on John’s, holding it gently, though he does not remember putting it there. John’s hand is warm and soft. God, he wants to hold it forever. He wants to learn everything about this man, spend the rest of his life touching and holding and memorizing every inch, every thought, every dream he holds dear. It all comes upon him so suddenly that their one point of contact feels like the key to a secret door, opening and revealing a part of himself he never knew existed. Sherlock has never felt this way in his life. He had loved Victor, to be sure, but did not feel anything even close to this. It is amazing. And...Jesus Christ, he is completely fucked.

“Please, allow me,” Sherlock whispers in a rough tone. John looks at him without blinking. The very tip of his tongue darts out to lick his lips. It lasts only a millisecond, but the sight of it sends Sherlock’s stomach to flipping and makes him weak in the knees. 

“All right,” John breathes. Without pulling his hand away, he turns slightly and sits on the edge of the bed. Swallowing hard and trying not to think about the fact that John Watson is sitting on his bed right in front of him, Sherlock reluctantly releases John’s hand and takes some gauze from the kit. 

“Take off your shirt.”

Did he really just say that? Sherlock nearly rolls his eyes in sheer embarrassment. Instead, he shakes his head minutely and then tries to adopt a more professional air, picking up the open bottle of peroxide. Placing the gauze on its top, Sherlock tips the bottle and saturates the gauze.

When he turns to John again, he means to speak, but the words die in his throat and come out as more of a gasp. John is just pulling the t-shirt over his head, tousling his blonde hair as it sweeps past it. He drops it on the bed next to him and looks at Sherlock expectantly, but the coach just gapes. John is gorgeous. His sun-kissed skin looks smooth and almost silky, stretching over his pectorals to his shoulders and down over the mostly defined muscles of his abdomen. There is not a single hair on his broad chest and his nipples are peaking from the slight chill in the air conditioned room. He looks like an underwear model and Sherlock’s mind floods with ways to worship every inch of his body.

“You used to surf in Anaheim,” Sherlock remarks instead, clearing his throat and keeping his tone even. John blinks.

“How did you… You see people, right. How do I keep forgetting that?” John smiles and then winces when he moves his arm.

Sherlock places his left hand on John’s bicep to hold him steady and touches the wet gauze to the wound right at the curve of his shoulder. The skin around John’s eyes tightens slightly as he watches the gentle ministrations clean away blood to reveal an angry dip where the skin was split open and the muscle marred.

“I don’t see, John,” Sherlock corrects as he works, “I…”

“Observe,” John finishes.

“And deduce,” Sherlock continues, looking at John with pin-point focus. The doctor’s eyes rise from the wound to meet his disarming silver gaze, steady and true. Sherlock feels warm, color rising into his cheeks and he feels light-headed. The air around them is heavy with promise, and the glimmer on John’s face is peaceful and welcoming. Looking at him, Sherlock is suddenly struck by the feeling that he has found someone who can truly understand him and the way he thinks, the way he sees the world. Molly has seen it too, but can it be? Could John really be what she thinks he could be? It is a concept Sherlock had given up hope of finding after Victor. At least, he thought he had.

“It’s the tan, right?”

“And the physique,” Sherlock says before thinking and immediately closes his eyes, cursing internally. John just laughs.

“I’m afraid that’ll change once I’ve been here a few more months.”

“You can always join a gym,” Sherlock suggests. As he works, he takes notice of the wound’s odd shape and angle. It is oddly familiar and yet, like none he has ever seen before, and he has seen quite a bit throughout his ten years in derby. This is different. What kind of object would make a mark like this?

“I’m always at the stadium just like you,” John says with a smile, “and I’m not one for going to a gym in the middle of the night. Or getting up at the bloody break of dawn.”

“You could use the exercise equipment at the stadium then. The ladies are usually out of the building by 8-8:30.”

“Oh, I’d feel a little odd doing that. Wouldn’t want to intrude on the off-chance someone is still there.”

Sherlock shrugs as he places a bandage and begins taping. John looks right at him, sparing none of his attention for anything but the man before him.

“How do you keep yourself fit?” John asks in a light tone, brows near his hairline. “Midnight jogs in the park?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock laughs, finishing with the bandage. “I have a few pieces of equipment here.”

“Do you?” John asks thoughtfully. “God, I need to get myself a real place. Having my own equipment would be perfect.”

“And your leg.”

“What?”

“Your leg. It’s also injured.”

“My...right! Right. Of course,” John looks both flustered and relieved. He leans over so his hip is easier to see, clenching his teeth in pain as he goes.

Sherlock bites his lip and ghosts his hand over John’s hip and thigh without touching the fabric of his boxers. He looks at the doctor with great unease. There is definitely more blood on the boxers than there was on John’s tee and it looks fresher. He wets his lips, unable to believe he is about to make his next suggestion.

“This would be a lot easier if you lie down,” he says almost timidly, “and less painful.”

John’s eyes go wide and his lips part in shock. It only lasts a second before the doctor schools his expression, looks at his hip and then back at Sherlock.

“Yeah, okay,” he says as though convincing himself. “Right. You’re right.”

John sits up again and takes a deep breath. With his teeth biting at his lower lip, he lowers himself down slowly and then turns onto his side carefully. It’s the most goddamn erotic thing Sherlock has seen in his life. Bending his good arm and supporting his head on one hand, John looks up at Sherlock. He gives him a pained and hesitant smile.

“Ready?”

“I was about to ask you that,” Sherlock answers with a small smile.

“All right then,” John wets his lips and slips his fingers into the waistband of his boxers. Sherlock’s brain stops as he watches John pull the waistband down to reveal a hipbone, the wound and skin much lighter than the rest of John’s body. Sherlock’s mouth goes dry. 

Absolutely. Bone. Dry. 

His gaze slides along John’s torso and stops on the exposed skin. He can just see a smattering of light curls that disappear into the boxer shorts. He blinks and shifts his eyes to the wound quickly, hoping John did not notice.

“This one could be deeper,” Sherlock mutters nearly to himself, as he grabs one of the hand towels and presses it against the wound. John inhales sharply, but does not flinch.

“I’m inclined to agree, but won’t know until you clean it up,” John’s voice is tight. “It hasn’t stopped bleeding. Could need stitches. You up for this?”

“Of course,” Sherlock bristles. “I have seen countless injuries on the track.”

“Yeah, but did you have to stitch them up on the fly?”

Sherlock meets his eyes. Truthfully, he has not. But he has come close. Sherlock readies a new piece of gauze and wets it with peroxide. When he is ready, he moves the towel aside and leans in closer. John’s body twitches at Sherlock’s first touch and again periodically as he cleans the wound. It is much deeper than the other one and very similar with that odd shape. Sherlock furrows his brow, trying to place it. 

“Why not a house?” John’s voice is quiet and pained.

“What?” Sherlock’s hand stills. He turns his gaze to John, his brows raised in question.

“Why haven’t you bought a house? You’ve been here a long time,” John asks, referring to their previous conversation, clearly trying to distract himself.

“Ah, well,” Sherlock fumbles for words. Sherlock hates being off-balance, taken by surprise. He struggles for equilibrium. “Houses are meant to be shared, not kept by a single man.”

He pauses in both word and action. The two men lock eyes in a very serious gaze.

“The home I grew up in was full of love. It was bright and airy. So was Molly’s. It just doesn’t seem right to have one all to myself.”

“Did you share one with Victor?”

“No,” Sherlock replies after a moment. “Not his style. We lived in an upscale apartment downtown. It was right where he needed to be, both for his work and social life.”

They are silent for a few minutes. It is awkward and yet, not. Sherlock feels very comfortable and calm, even as his nerves remain edgy. His grey eyes suddenly dart to where his own hand rests on John’s hip, a reminder to stay still while he works. He can feel the warmth of the skin under his hand. A light sweat breaks out on Sherlock’s forehead and his heart rate picks up. It sounds so loud in his ears and John must be able to hear it. They are too close for him not to.

“I understand,” John finally says in a quiet voice. “It’s never felt right to me either.”

The look they share takes on new life, a new purpose that they both feel down to their bones. A connection, a common bond, and Sherlock makes up his mind in a split second. John Watson must stay in his condo tonight.

Sherlock straightens and removes the gauze, and his hand, from John’s hip. The angry mark on his skin looks so hateful, marring what is otherwise a gorgeous landscape. Sherlock clears his throat and looks at John, nodding toward the wound.

“So what do you think, Doctor?” he asks cheekily. “Do I need to find a needle and thread?”

“No, I don’t think so,” John chuckles. “A couple of butterfly strips will do it. D’you have any in that first-aid kit of yours?”

“As a matter of fact,” Sherlock gives him a smartass grin, brows still raised. He places the gauze he is holding back on John’s hip, fingertips grazing the soft skin, and then reaches for John’s hand. He places it gingerly on the gauze. “If you would be so kind.”

“It would be my pleasure,” John jokes.

With a smile on his face, Sherlock turns to the kit and begins rifling through its contents for the strips. He knows he has seen them before and is certain he has never used them. Just as he sees them, his hands slow to a stop and eyes lose their focus, as he stares blankly at the kit. John’s wounds are from bullets grazing his body. Sherlock has seen examples just like them in the medical books he studied while Anderson was the team doctor. He wouldn’t trust that man to place a band-aid on a scrape, much less execute decent stitches. Sherlock had felt more secure knowing he could step in, or at least watch to make sure as little was bungled as possible.

Sherlock’s gaze comes back to reality and darts to John’s shoulder, then his hip. He feels the packaged butterfly strips between his fingers, but his mind remains elsewhere. A cold chill drips slowly into his veins as a singular horrifying thought reverberates in his head.

Someone fired shots at John.

Someone attempted to murder John.

Sherlock’s eyes fly to John’s face. He was relaxed and cracking jokes earlier, but now wears an expression of curiosity that creeps in the direction of worry. Sherlock looks away as he tears open the package in his hands. He has placed the first one in seconds and then the other.

“Nicely done, Dr. Holmes,” John jokes, eyes bright and amused again. “Now all we need is a bandage and you’ll be doing my job. I don’t think I’d be very good at yours though.”

“Who shot at you, John?” Sherlock asks without preamble. He pins the doctor with such an intense glower that John cannot possibly look away or avoid the question. His smile fades.

“You really cut to the quick, don’t you?”

Sherlock cocks a brow.

“Have I ever given indication to the contrary during our association?” he asks, but it is not really a question.

John purses his lips, raises his brows and tilts his head to the side in both a thoughtful gesture and one that acquiesces the point. Sherlock leans closer and rests his hand on John’s thigh, just under the wound. He watches John’s face as he glances down at Sherlock’s hand and then lifts his gaze to look at the coach full in the face. His features are wary, but otherwise unreadable. Sherlock squares his jaw. Nothing is going to keep him from finding the truth. 

“Who was it, John?” his tone is soft, but firm. Sherlock has not heard anything quite like it from his own lips before. He wonders silently at this man’s power over him and wishes he had some, **any** power over John. Is he going to tell him the truth outright or try to pass this off as nothing? He trusts Sherlock, but will he trust him with this?

John watches Sherlock for a moment with the same scrutiny that Sherlock studies him. John seems to consider something and then looks resigned, sighing heavily. He sits up and raises a hand to cup the back of his own neck.

“I don’t know,” he says. “He was all in black with a knit cap pulled over his face.”

“A balaclava.”

“If you want to be technical about it, yeah. Either way, I couldn’t see his face.”

“He was in your apartment?”

“Longer than he expected to be. He said he was on a schedule,” John’s voice is harsh and Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise. He had not expected the attacker would have spoken to John and the fury simmering just beneath the surface of John’s words makes Sherlock wonder what else was said. He is suddenly and inexplicably compelled to lighten John’s mood.

“He can’t be too happy about the delay your kicking his ass has caused.”

John’s eyes go from hard with anger to soft amusement in seconds. A rather unceremonious burst of laughter pops from his lips, now turned up in a smile.

“I wouldn’t say I kicked his ass,” he remarks, “but I don’t mind fucking up his plans one bit.”

“His intention was murder,” Sherlock says with a hint of a question in his voice.

“Without a doubt.”

“Why, John?” Sherlock is suddenly on his knees before the bed at eye level with John. His voice is tense as he tries to find anything at all in the wing he has marked for John that would warrant such an attack. “Is there someone from Anaheim who would want to hurt you? Do you have any enemies?”

“Normal people don’t have enemies, Sherlock,” he answers sharply.

Sherlock jerks back as though he has been slapped in the face. He instantly recalls a conversation they had about the Demons and their coach, James Moriarty. His ‘arch enemy’ Sherlock had called him and John had laughed.

“But why do you two hate each other so much?”

Sherlock knew John had heard different theories from most of the ladies. HardOn’s rendition was the most colorful, as one would expect. Sally’s would be the most accurate. She was there after all, but she had declined to offer an explanation out of respect for her coach. Sherlock had never told anyone what had actually transpired, always dodging the questions with declarations of reps or laps, but John had been nothing but honest with him at their dinner at Angelo’s. His face hid nothing and his obvious pleasure in Sherlock’s company had gotten the better of the coach, as it so often does.

“We had just beaten the Demons badly. It wasn’t for the championship or even a play-off bout, but Moriarty was pissed off,” Sherlock had said with a growing grin. “He made some disparaging remarks about Molly and I…”

“Yeah?” John asked with anticipation. He had looked like a child at Christmastime, his bright blue eyes shining.

“I punched him.”

John howled.

“In the throat.”

John’s laughter died in his throat. He looked at Sherlock in shock and Sherlock thought his chin might actually hit the floor.

“No!” John said in a choked whisper. “You didn’t.”

He laughed so hard when Sherlock nodded and he nearly slipped right off the bench they were sitting on.

“Coach!” HardOn had suddenly yelled form the track. “Stop mistreating Ph.D. He can’t take care of our sorry asses if you keep bustin’ his.”

Hella hooted as she rolled by her partner, slapping her ass on the way. Sherlock had signaled for more laps and then glanced at John as his laughter grew even louder, tears actually beginning to roll from his eyes. Sherlock had grinned at the reckless abandon.

“Shit,” John’s voice draws Sherlock’s eye and pulls him from his thoughts. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock mumbles.

“It’s not,” John persists. “I wasn’t thinking of you. I wasn’t thinking at all.”

Sherlock is looking away and rising to his feet, desperately wishing this conversation would end. He picks up a sterile bandage packet and tears it open, swiftly putting the bandage in place. It surprises John enough that he almost recoils, but Sherlock grabs his hand roughly and shoves it toward the bandage.

“Hold this.”

“Sherlock.”

“It’s fine. Just leave it. I need to get this bandage on and then you will tell me everything that happened.”

John stares at him pointedly while he tapes the bandage down. Once he is finished, he packs up the first-aid kit and closes its latch. Sherlock considers returning it to the en suite, but knows it is the coward’s way out. He has never shrunk back from anything in his life. He is not going to start now. Instead, he meets John’s eyes and sees a fierce determination there that matches his own.

“I didn’t see him when I got home, but he was there,” John begins without being asked. 

He goes through everything that took place and in as much detail as he can. Sherlock cringes when John gets to the fire escape and alley. The bastard came so close to finding John there and would have surely killed him where he stood. No place to run. Sherlock does not interrupt, forcing back his fear and worry for John. 

By the time the doctor is finished, Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his fingers steepled before his chin. He visualizes it all in his mind, trying to keep his emotions at a distance. He has not been to John’s apartment, but knows the building and general layout for a unit. He watches the man grab John from behind in the kitchen and the ensuing struggle. Sentiment momentarily gets the better of him and he physically flinches when the second bullet grazes John’s hip. He breathes deeply and follows John out the window and down the fire escape. 

The whole incident makes him sick to his stomach, but the kitchen is the worst. The thought of a murderer holding John close to his own body from behind, a most vulnerable position indeed. The image stirs within Sherlock an emotion he isn’t sure how to process. Fear and protectiveness, like he was wronged somehow right along with John. It does not make sense. John is not his to protect and yet, there it is, front and center. Sherlock cannot ignore it or his feelings for John. He has tried, of course, since the moment he walked into Greg’s office to meet the doctor. Even though there are no organizational rules preventing them from exploring an attraction, there is still an obstacle and it is the most important. Sherlock’s own heart. He allowed himself to be vulnerable with Victor and paid the price. Recovering from it would have been impossible had he not thrown himself into coaching and derby. He had vowed never to be in that situation again. Since then, Sherlock has never felt the desire to open that door in his mind palace, not even a crack.

Until now.

And it was not a decision. That dinner with John changed everything. The door wasn’t just opened, it was forced from its hinges. In spite of it, Sherlock has tried to board up the doorway and move on. He may have feelings for John, strong feelings, but cannot risk his heart again no matter how persistent it is. Because John would have nothing less than his whole heart and losing it, losing John would destroy him. 

_John._

So open and honest and yet, such a mystery. John would tell him anything if he only asked, even the personal and painful. John seems so responsive when Sherlock’s resolve slips and finds himself flirting, but truth be told, Sherlock is not entirely certain of John’s interest or orientation, for that matter. The stories of his past relationships are just vague enough that Sherlock has not gathered whether they were with men or women or both. They all have ambiguous names like Chris and Jamie, and are just short enough to provide the gist with no real details. Sherlock still cannot seem to deduce him either, not to the extent that he can everyone else. John cannot possibly know how he confounds Sherlock.

When he opens his eyes, John no longer sits on the bed before him. In fact, John is not even in the room. Sherlock’s eyes look from side to side sharply, his brow furrowing with worry. Is John even in the condo? Sherlock jumps to his feet just as the en suite door opens and the man in question appears in its frame. He still wears only boxer shorts and Sherlock feels his knees weaken a fraction. Flip. _Stop it!_

“Hey. Sorry,” he says quickly, noticing Sherlock’s distress. “I needed the loo and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Sherlock cocks a brow and gives him a questioning look.

“Your thoughts. You were in your mind palace, yeah?”

“I was,” the coach answers. “For too long it seems. My apologies.”

“No worries,” John’s hand is at the back of his neck again, his brows raised. “I guess I should call the police.”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s late and they will keep you in the station for hours,” Sherlock explains, making no attempt to keep the disdain from his tone. “You may as well get some sleep. Waiting to tell them in the morning won’t make much difference.”

“But they should start looking before he disappears,” John protests.

“Oh, they won’t catch him,” Sherlock almost chuckles as he approaches John.

“What?” he asks incredulously.

“I’m afraid the police force is far from competent.”

“What? Jesus, Sherlock.”

“But reporting the incident is still a good idea. Better to have it on record in case…”

“In case what?” John’s hands are on his hips. Well, one is more on his waist. Sherlock says nothing. “In case he comes back?”

“It is a possibility, John.”

“I know it is. That’s why I plan to be very careful when I go back.”

“You can’t go back there,” Sherlock tells him abruptly. John’s fixes a glare on him, anger burning dangerously beneath his skin and tinting his cheeks. His mouth is a thin line. He watches Sherlock, biting the inside of his cheek. The coach diplomatically backpedals before John has a chance to speak. “Not tonight anyway. Not until the police look over your apartment and interview the neighbors.”

John narrows his eyes and exhales a steady breath. To Sherlock’s surprise, John remains silent instead of arguing or simply telling him to mind his own fucking business. After a moment of waiting, Sherlock decides this is far worse than shouting. The air is thick with John’s anger and the weight of anticipation is overwhelming. Sherlock’s lips part, placations at the ready, but he remains quiet when John’s features transform right before his eyes. The hard lines soften and his muscles relax.

“Yeah, I suppose that makes sense,” he concedes reluctantly, “but I don’t have my wallet for a hotel. I don’t even have any clothes.”

“You’ll stay here,” Sherlock states as if the decision has already been made and then immediately flinches. Did he learn nothing from his previous misstep? John Watson does not like to be told what to do. He tries for a lighter tone that suggests more than it commands. “I have a spare room.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I couldn’t,” John starts, raising a hand in protest. Sherlock silently blows out a breath of relief that he has skirted the line and John has not taken offense. He shrugs, his confidence returning.

“Why not? You’re here already and you’re right about your state of dress, especially considering the blood. You can’t go anywhere looking like this.”

John’s eyes drop down his own body and Sherlock’s can’t help but follow. _Good god._

“You’re right. Of course, you’re right,” he nods with a small smile. “Thank you.”

***

Sherlock stands in his own spare bedroom, surveying everything to make sure he has not forgotten something. John is looking back at him and holding a dark blue t-shirt in his hands. Sherlock hopes it fits well enough. There is a pair of sweatpants in one of his drawers that is far too short for him, but he is quite certain it will fit John well enough. He just has to find them before they talk with the police in the morning. John does not know it yet, but Sherlock intends upon going with him to his apartment. He has already composed the all-team email stating he will not be in the stadium for morning workouts. He has also resolved to look over every inch of the apartment. Sherlock Holmes is no detective, but he will damn well solve this mystery so he can look the man who tried to murder John in the eye when he breaks his nose.

“Well, I hope that fits you,” he tells John. “I’m not exactly your size and your shoulders are a bit broader than mine.”

“Yeah, a bit,” John chuckles and jokes. “Thanks for noticing.”

Sherlock studies him for a moment, taken aback by the apparent flirtation. He wets his lips and glances away. He cannot be reading this correctly. John is not flirting with him. He can’t be flirting with him. He is joking. That’s what it is. He is making light of all this, of the situation.

“I’ll work on finding those sweatpants,” he says in lieu of a real response.

“Thanks,” John replies, dipping his chin in embarrassment. He looks up at Sherlock from under dark lashes that have no business being so long. Flip. “I’m sorry about all this. I hate to impose.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Sherlock tells him honestly. “I’m glad you came.”

“Yeah, about that. When I first got here I was really abrupt and a little…” he closes his mouth suddenly and stares. “Wait. You’re...you’re glad I came?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers before he can think better of it. He looks at John, who is very clearly surprised. Anything more than that is difficult to read. Sherlock crinkles his brow in frustration. This would all be so much easier if he could deduce John properly. Of all the people he has ever met, why does the one person whose innermost feelings he most wants to know have to be so damn impossible to read? “We are friends and I want to help.”

“Oh, right,” John looks disappointed and his face falls a fraction. _Why?_

Sherlock decides quickly that may not have been the best thing to say, but he has no idea what he should have said instead. He clears his throat and gestures to the closet door.

“Extra blankets are on a shelf in the closet,” he explains. John’s gaze follows his hand and then Sherlock as he turns to walk toward another door. “This is the bathroom. Go ahead and use the towels and washcloth hanging on the rack.”

Sherlock squats and opens the cabinet beneath the sink. He pulls out a mid-sized sand pail. It bears the image of the Grinch from the 2018 remake. Molly had begged Sherlock to go with her and they gave him the bucket as soon as he entered the theater. It was some promotional thing and he was the umpteenth person. Dull. He would have refused had they not filled it with popcorn. Sherlock could eat his weight in popcorn.

Once the film was over, Sherlock knew he would never willingly part with it. He felt a certain kinship with the Grinch. Badly hurt in his past, unwilling to let it happen again, shutting out people and feelings, a single friend by his side. He has not mentioned how easily he can put himself in those shoes because Molly would just feel sorry for him, no doubt. She would also not appreciate being equated to Max, the dog and would staunchly disagree. She sees a side of him that no one else does. If they had not grown up together, he probably would have shut her out too. The changes in Victor and their divorce had hurt him so deeply, he did not think he would allow anyone but Molly into his life again. Then he met John and, just like with Cindy Lou Who, everything changed. He supposes John would also not appreciate the comparison.

Sherlock takes a toothbrush still in its unopened package and a small tube of toothpaste from the bucket. Replacing the bucket and standing, he catches John’s curious eye.

“Have a lot of overnight guests, do you?” John smirks, already knowing the answer.

“Dental samples,” Sherlock supplies as he sets them on the sink. “I don’t discard things that could be useful. I’ll get you a comb while I look for the sweatpants.”

“No, Sherlock, I’ve already imposed enough.”

”It’s no trouble at all, John,” he says firmly, placing both items on the counter. John’s lips are curled into the beginnings of a smile when Sherlock looks to him again. The coach actually gives himself a once-over before asking, “What?”

“I appreciate it,” is all he says.

Sherlock finds himself smiling back. Neither one says a word. The two men simply face one another, smiles inexplicably growing into grins. Sherlock could stay this way all night and all day tomorrow too. He would love nothing more than to have John as a house guest for any length of time, sharing stories and jokes. _And a bed,_ his mind supplies so coolly it is like something they were always meant to do. 

Sherlock gives his head a quick shake to dispel the images forming in the John wing of his mind palace and slams the door shut before his cheeks are so pink John will think he has a fever. Shifting backwards a step and worrying his lips, he meets John ‘s eyes again. He suddenly feels ridiculous, like he is tucking John in for the night. Not trusting himself to speak, Sherlock turns and walks to the door. When he looks back at John, the man wears yet another unreadable expression. Sherlock shrugs toward the hall and smiles somewhat awkwardly.

“Good night, John.”

“Sherlock, wait,” he steps forward in a rush, tossing the t-shirt on the bed. They are only a couple feet apart now and Sherlock can already feel heat radiating from his cheeks down through his neck and into his chest. He watches as John bites his own lip and wards away the thought of doing it to John himself. John looks at him apprehensively, visibly debating whether or not to share what is on his mind.

“Do you…” John begins, but stops immediately. His features alter into something more decisive and his voice is authoritative when he speaks again. “This has something to do with Billy.”

Sherlock’s brows furrow over narrowed eyes. His mind instantly begins testing and weighing every possible scenario.

“Someone tried to poison him to get him to leave and now as soon as you have another competent doctor, someone tries to kill him? No,” John shakes his head. “It’s too damn coincidental.”

He pauses to run a hand through his hair and cover his mouth in thought. When he removes it, he also shuffles his feet closer to Sherlock’s, bringing them even closer.

“I don’t know exactly how Molly figures into this, but…”

“Saving her is reason enough to eliminate you,” Sherlock finishes for him as it begins to snap into place. John must believe the same because he is already nodding. “It’s Moriarty. It has to be.”

“Now, Sherlock,” John’s face fills with doubt, “don’t rush to any conclusions.”

“I’m not rushing to anything. It makes perfect sense. The bastard wants to win and will do whatever it takes to do it.”

“But murder?”

“Any. Thing,” Sherlock pins John with cold grey eyes. “He has no scruples. His moral compass is skewed. Classic personality trait.”

“Personality trait? Are you saying he’s some kind of psychopath?” John’s tone is incredulous.

“No,” Sherlock replies thoughtfully. “He’s a sociopath.”

John purses his lips and shifts his weight. His hands rest on his hips and he looks at his colleague skeptically.

“Sherlock, there is absolutely no proof that Moriarty has anything to do with this,” he lifts his hand in placation when Sherlock opens his mouth to protest. Against his better judgement, Sherlock remains quiet to hear the doctor out. “I’m not saying I don’t trust your judgement. He is definitely a suspect. I just don’t want you to convince yourself that we should only focus on him is all. It could easily be someone else, anyone else at this point.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says. It makes sense. It does. John is not wrong, but Sherlock still believes Moriarty is behind all of it. Everything he knows about the man, every experience they have shared is all the evidence Sherlock needs. However, solid physical proof is what police will require. All the more reason to go with John to his apartment in the morning, which he might as well mention now while he is at it. “I’m going with you to meet the police tomorrow.”

“What?” John starts. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

“And I am going to search your apartment myself once they’ve gone,” he continues. “I’ve little confidence in their abilities. I will solve this mystery myself.”

“What? Like on Scooby Doo?” John snorts. “ ‘Looks like we have ourselves another mystery’.”

Sherlock shoots him an indignant glare.

“Sherlock,” he takes a step and rests his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, shaking his head. “This along with coaching and everything else you have on your plate? No. Besides, it’s too risky. We’ve both seen how dangerous this is. I have the bandages to prove it.”

Sherlock meets John’s earnest gaze with one of his own. His voice is quiet and deadly serious.

“Molly is my family. I will place myself in the line of fire to protect her every time. You know that. Failure means the murderer will try again. And she isn’t the only target. So are you. I cannot allow that.”

“Sherlock, I’ll not have you risk your life for me,” he replies shortly. He moves his hands from Sherlock’s shoulders and shakes his head. “That is something **I** will not allow. I will not put you at risk.”

Sherlock looks at the doctor wickedly and lets out a dark chuckle.

“I’d like to see you try to stop me,” his lips curl upward into a smirk as he watches John with a gleam in his eye.

John presses his lips into a thin line and for a moment, Sherlock thinks he might tell him what a stubborn asshole he is. But the anger and frustration quickly fade from his face, making way for a broad grin and bright eyes. Sherlock could look at those blue eyes for a hundred years and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Another time,” John breathes.

Their eyes are locked on one another. The human eye can say so much without words. John’s are open and honest, conveying his every emotion so articulately. But there is also something that remains so clearly hidden, just beneath the surface. What Sherlock wouldn’t give to know what it is.

Without realizing it, Sherlock has drifted quite close to John. He knows he should pull back, but has no intention of doing so. John smells so good. Cinnamon and vanilla with a unique musky scent that must belong to John alone. Sherlock inhales deeply, wanting to memorize every detail of it, of this moment because they will never be this close again. John will snap out of this spell and step away, a window in time to be suffocated with shutters and never reopened.

But John is not stepping back. His blue eyes explore every inch of Sherlock’s face as though he has the same idea Sherlock does, but that cannot be. John does not feel the same way and Sherlock feels so many things at once - joy, safety, adoration, comfort and... He feels like he is home. Not just in his condo, but home. 

The air around them crackles with electricity and oh, Jesus, he wants to kiss John. It would be so easy. Just lean down, angle his neck, close the gap. Sherlock knows full well John’s lips would be soft, perfect. John is perfect. He does not bore Sherlock, has never bored him, could never bore him. John is funny and intriguing, honest and mysterious. Sherlock loves it all. He could easily spend a night or week or month or forever with John and never know exactly what would happen like he does in anyone else’s company. People are idiots. John is brilliant.

Fear flashes across Sherlock’s features and a chill runs down his neck, spreading into his veins until he can feel it in his fingertips. Did he just profess love for John? No. He tries to deny it, but the proof of it appears around every corner he turns within his mind palace. _Fuck! Fuck!_ What the fuck is he going to do now? It was one thing when it was just an attraction. He can live with suppressing an attraction, but love? With someone he works with and sees every day? Someone he is friends with? If he takes this chance as Molly suggested and it ends like Victor, he will have nothing to fall back on. Derby and skating, his very life blood, will remind him of John.

Sherlock jolts backwards and plants his hand on a nearby dresser to keep himself steady. His breaths are coming rapidly and he holds a palm to his chest. His distress clear, John lurches forward to help, putting a hand on his arm.

“Sherlock!” his voice is urgent and full of worry. “Are you all right?”

“M’fine,” he nods, straightening up. “Fine. Just tired.”

Sherlock shrugs away from John’s touch, leaving his hand hovering alone between them. By the time it is back at John’s side, Sherlock is at the door with his hand on the knob. 

“Good night, John,” he whips the door closed and collapses against it, heaving a great sigh. Tipping his head back until it rests against the door, Sherlock’s gaze drifts up and focuses on the ceiling.

He is in love with John Watson.

He is in love with John.

He is so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack! Jane, you're such a tease! Or should I say bitch? How many times? How close did they come to it? And that part when Sherlock thinks "I should just kiss him. It would be so easy right now and I really, REALLY want to".
> 
> Yes, I am the queen of torture and angst. My t-shirt is being made. I will promise you, my friends, promise you that there will be more of the same and it will be agonizing. Hopefully, not so much that you stop reading. Haha. I have to say that as I type each chapter and then edit, even I keep thinking "My god, stop. Just stahp!" It's going to be a wild ride, my friends, and one I hope you love.
> 
> And now for something completely different.  
> 1\. Now that Sherlock knows, will/when he give in and let himself show it?  
> 2\. Will/when he admit it to John?  
> 3\. What will John think?  
> 4\. What will he say?  
> 5\. Just what were his past relationships like? How have they shaped who he is and how he views love? 
> 
> Dear god, so much we don’t know yet and so much time to learn!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, my friends. Don’t hesitate to ask me anything or just say hi. I truly cherish every comment and answer them in my own long-winded and crazy way. Just ask my newest of friends, My Bread and Butter. I'm pretty chatty. Lol.  
> I love you all! Stay safe.  
> Jane


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duo has a little spat and John has a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My god, I cannot believe it's the weekend already. Idk about you, but it has flown by for me. This new normal really is so weird. My husband says it won't change anytime soon. Gah.
> 
> That said, please take this chapter as a source of much needed entertainment and escape. I know I love getting my mind on something else whenever I type or edit. It is welcomed with open arms, a feeling I hope comes to all of you when you're reading. I'm afraid this is another short chapter, but there's quite a bit packed into it. I hope you all enjoy.

_Hush little baby, don’t say a word and never mind that noise you heard._

_It’s just the beast under your bed, in your closet, in your head._

_\-- Metallica, Enter Sandman_

The following morning is, to say the least, eventful. John and Sherlock wake at roughly the same time and each showers in his respective bathroom. They actually make a quick breakfast together. Sherlock works on what he calls his “secret recipe” for seasoned scrambled eggs while John mans the bacon and toast. He teases Sherlock while they cook, pretending to look over his shoulder or around his body to see the ingredients. It is absolutely delicious and so peaceful, and John even admits the eggs are the best he has ever had when all is said and done.

After seeing to John’s flat and speaking with the police, they eventually make it to the stadium separately. John has been in his office ever since, catching up on all he had planned to do that morning. He stops for a moment, fingers poised above the qwerty keys, visions from breakfast drifting about in his mind. He looks up from the computer screen on his desk and lets his eyes rest on the wall across the way. Looking at nothing in particular, he smiles to himself. Sherlock was so open, so at ease. So was John, for that matter. It was like something they did every morning. No awkwardness or uncertainty or fumbling for conversation. It was incredibly comfortable, like they had been flatmates for years, and John finds himself wanting it to happen again. Often.

Shaking his head and sighing, John looks back to the screen and reads what he was typing. He had missed out on a lot of work, having spent the whole morning with the police and then searching his own flat with Sherlock. The officers and the detective in charge did nothing but irritate John from the moment they arrived. Their leading questions and thoughtless commentary all but accusing John of being careless with a burglar he “caught in the act” by returning home at just the wrong time. John spent two hours alone trying to make them believe he wasn’t a complete idiot and all while not cursing. A feet in and of itself.

By the time they left, John was mad as hell. Fortunately, his mood improved when he and Sherlock searched the flat. Nothing had been moved or stolen. The sole purpose for the intrusion was to murder John, though John is not sure that makes him feel any better about the whole thing. The intruder left bloody little evidence behind, beyond more bullet holes than John remembers him firing. He began to feel lucky he made it out with only glancing blows. Sherlock had seemed impressed and John had shrugged, suggesting the man was a bad shot. He shook his head, curls bouncing and said no one sends a man who lacks accuracy on a shooting range.

The police had dug the bullets from the walls at which point Sherlock announced they had been fired from a Beretta, probably an M9A3 because it has a threaded barrel to suppress sound and John spoke of bullets whizzing rather than gunshots. When he was finished, nearly everyone in the room was staring in utter befuddlement, even John. Sherlock rolled his eyes and explained that he often read books and studied different subjects when he couldn’t sleep. Firearms happened to have been one of the topics.

“Pretty odd subject to just study at random, don’t you think?” the detective had asked. “Who are you again?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he replied impatiently. “John and I are colleagues.”

“Holmes, Holmes. Why does that sound familiar?

“Because he’s the coach for the Rock City Rollers, sir,” a uniformed officer piped up. The detective looked his way.

“The derby team?” he turned back to Sherlock, who was very visibly annoyed. “No kidding. I always change the channel for the news before interviews with the coach.”

“Perhaps you would not be so ill informed if you had a longer attention span,” Sherlock shot back. John inches closer to him, wanting to keep him from going off the rails.

“Sherlock,” he had mumbled in warning. John was hardly the picture of calm either, but stirring up trouble would only delay the detective’s departure.

“The team looks fantastic, Mr. Holmes,” the uniformed officer bubbled, either trying to defuse the situation or simply because he was a fan. “All the players have been really awesome in the bouts so far. Top form.”

“Right,” the detective spoke over him and eyed Sherlock suspiciously. “Just where were you at the time of the attack?”

“In my home.”

“Doing what exactly? Studying up on more weapons to use on your colleagues maybe?”

“What the fuck?”

That was the moment John’s tenuous grip on his simmering anger snapped.

“Why the fuck are you accusing him? He didn’t do it!”

“Oh, really? You saw the culprit, did you? Let’s see,” the detective grabbed the small pad of paper another officer had been taking notes on right out of her hands. He glanced at it for show and fixed his eyes back on John. “The attacker was dressed all in black with a stocking cap pulled down over his face, so no. No, you didn’t. You’re about six feet, aren’t you? Just about the right size.”

The detective addressed his last comments to Sherlock, who just stared at him with a critical glare. He obviously thought the man an idiot and regarded him as such. He remained silent in the wake of the detective’s accusations, but John. John was thoroughly pissed off. He had stepped right up into the detective’s personal space, a hard expression on his face. His eyes were blazing and his jaw was set, teeth clenched and muscles working. Held back by only a thread’s width, he was quite terrifying. 

“Let me ask you this,” his voice was calm, but laced with tension and the threat of more. “Why didn’t he just finish the job when he found me on his doorstep?”

“Makes it a bit obvious, doesn’t it?” the detective paused to raise his brows for emphasis. “You turning up dead at his apartment.”

“Oh. My. God,” John had just stared at the man in disbelief that evaporated back into anger soon enough when the detective insisted upon giving him an exaggerated look of warning, accompanied by a tilt of his head to indicate Sherlock. John opened his mouth for rebuttal, but felt a light touch on his arm. He would know that touch anywhere, and was that a little odd? It sent a tingle throughout John’s body, gentle and warm. A warmth that found its way up and down his limbs, and to his heart. All from that one point of contact, a feather light touch. And that really does seem odd.

“We’re done here,” John announced in a commanding voice. The detective gave him a very serious look and then turned to the crime scene technicians with a jerk of his head.

“You got what you need?” he angled his head back to John after receiving an affirmative. “We’ll be in touch. Let me know if you think of anything else.”

He handed John his card and gave Sherlock a pointed glare, his features still warning John to keep his distance. For his part, John took the card quietly, fighting not to roll his eyes or lay into the man.

“Thank you. Goodbye.”

John thought that was the end of it, that his mood could not possibly be worse. He was wrong.

He and Sherlock had just finished their own search of the flat. Getting his mind on something else, and having some distance between him and the idiot detective, had done wonders. He was decidedly grumpy, but in a much better place. Until Sherlock opened his mouth. He was in the middle of a deduction based upon the evidence they found and John was listening carefully, but somehow the rest of it disappeared after Sherlock’s last few words.

“...and you’ll have to stay somewhere else, of course.”

“What?”

“You will have to move out until the man is apprehended.”

Sherlock sounded so damn smug, so self-assured. John dipped his chin and glared up at him with fierce eyes.

“I am  **not** moving out,” he growled and Sherlock stared back at him with an air of surprise that is quickly quashed.

“John, this man was clearly here to murder you,” he had said firmly. “There was no other motive - burglary, vandalism and the like. The only items out of place are what you knocked over in the struggle. He left as soon as he lost you. Coupled with what he said..”

“Never mind what he said,” John interrupted in a low voice, thick with anger. He was not going to run. He was not about to let this bastard control him. If that was what Sherlock wanted, he could shove it up his ass.

“He said something else,” Sherlock had said suddenly, pushing the point. “Something you’re not telling me.”

“It’s none of your business!” The dam had broken and Sherlock took the brunt of John’s fury. “Whatever he said or did, none of it has anything to do with you. You’re not my flatmate or my family. We’re barely even friends!”

John saw the sting of the words as plain as if he had hit Sherlock. The face that was always so open with him closed off in a split-second as Sherlock closed himself to John. There was nothing in his beautifully expressive eyes but cold and ice. John had instantly regretted his words and followed Sherlock as he headed for the door, grabbing his coat on the way.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, don’t go.”

“No, you’re right. There’s no reason to involve myself,” he stopped abruptly and turned to face John, his hand on the knob. His movements were so sudden that John almost ran into him. “Except that  **you** came to  **me** . You’d been shot. You could have been killed! And you came to  **my** door. So forgive me for thinking that meant something.”

Sherlock yanked the door open and rushed through, slamming it in John’s face. John had raised his hands to placate the angry man, but they were ignored and simply came to rest lightly onto the door as John leaned against it.

John had felt terrible, defeated. And he still does, sitting in his office hours later. He had not gone to practice that afternoon, too embarrassed to face Sherlock. God, he had been such a fool. Of course Sherlock was involved. John had run straight to his fucking door as soon as he had left his own flat.  **He** involved him.

John is still looking at the wall across from his desk with unfocused eyes. Barely even friends, that is what he had said. It is true they have not known each other long, but John has never had a better friend. He feels like he has known Sherlock for years and yet, he was quick to hurt him so badly. He sighs. What he wouldn’t give to see that silhouette in his door right now.

He glances at the clock and watches for a few seconds as the hands tick away another minute. 10:56. John really should leave. It will be midnight before he gets home. He pushes his chair back to stand, knocking his pen to the floor. He stoops down to retrieve it, but launches himself right out of the chair to the floor instead as his door flies open and someone leaps into the room. John only just stops himself from gasping and giving himself away. Biting at his fist to keep quiet, he silently tucks himself under the desk. He holds his breath, hoping he was not heard because the sick feeling in his gut tells him this is no friendly visit.

For a moment, all is silent and still. The intruder moves quickly to the room’s closet door and throws it open, stamping his feet hard on the floor to set himself into position as he does so. John inhales sharply but silently, hoping the man does not come close to the desk. His mind can only imagine one scenario to explain the man’s position in front of the closet. He has seen it in countless cop and detective shows on telly.

The door closes again and John hears the click of a hammer going back into place. He closes his eyes, but only for a second when the clomping footsteps near the desk. John is frozen to the spot and trying to ready himself to spring up and defend himself, knowing he will be shot in the attempt. He’ll be damned if he goes down without a fight. His eyes dart around for anything he can use as a weapon, but all he has is the pen he bent down to pick up. Given his current posture, John sees only one option. If he kicks the intruder away he should have enough time to get out from under the desk and go at him with the pen. John knows exactly where to hit and make it count. If it comes to that, he will only get one shot at it.

John swallows hard and listens intently as the man takes a few steps. He comes nearer to the desk and John flinches away, the man is so close. Even as John’s muscles tighten, readying to kick, the man turns and walks to stand in front of the office door. John bites his lip, not daring to believe the man will leave. He turns his head until one ear faces the front of the desk, tilting his head to listen.

“He’s not here.”

John’s eyes widen and ice cold fear begins creeping through his veins. It is the same voice that whispered in his ear. It is the same man who shot at him the night before. John stops breathing all together. If this man discovers his hiding place he will not escape this time.

“I know what you said, but he isn’t here,” the man repeats in a bland tone. “He must have left earlier than you thought.”

John listens carefully and moves not a muscle. The man continues speaking on his mobile and John wishes he could hear the other voice. He racks his brain to think of who it might be. Someone who knows he is working late. Someone in the stadium. One of the staff or team? No, it can’t be.

“Right. I’ll check the exam rooms and then go to his apartment again. His car may still be here, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t get a ride somewhere.” A pause. “Wherever he is, he’ll have to go home eventually.”

The office door opens, but the man does not move. Instead, John hears the rustle of clothing as the man looks around one last time. There is a deep inhalation and slow release of breath. He steps through and closes the door. John listens intently at the sounds of his footsteps fading down the hall. He lets out a long sigh of relief, letting his shoulders sag and his head fall back against the desk. John closes his eyes and tries to think. He cannot leave right away, much as he would love to run, or he will surely be seen. He has to wait long enough for the man to check the exam rooms. John is sure it will take the man all of five minutes to complete, but decides he should wait at least thirty. Only way to be certain he is gone so John can sneak out of the stadium as quickly and quietly as possible. He lets out another breath, willing his body to relax. He cannot go home.

John immediately thinks of Sherlock and then shakes his head. Will he help John again after all the things he said? John closes his eyes again and sees bright grey ones staring back at him. He wrinkles his brow as if in pain, the silent anguish that only hurting a friend can cause. A friend? Or more? Does John want more? He cannot deny his interest in Sherlock, nor his attraction. The man could be a bloody underwear model with the way he looks. He is way out of John’s league, but when has that ever stopped him? John smirks and he watches as one of those keen grey eyes winks.

Those ridiculous cheekbones come into view and a smile emerges from the darkness. A very knowing and sly smile. Cheeky bastard. A long column of pale skin glows to life, leading down to clavicles that draw the eye to broad, strong shoulders. As more of Sherlock comes out of the shadows in John’s mind, he begins to realize the coach is not wearing a shirt. The darkness clears away from a firm chest, revealing muscle and skin, miles of pale skin. John can feel desire pooling in his belly. Sherlock is...everything. They have only just met and John is actually so far gone on him that he might as well be a horny teenager again. And Sherlock must know, much as John tries to hide it, but he has never said a word. John really should drop it if Sherlock is not interested and he will. John would never risk their friendship for mere sex. He has never connected with someone on this level before and he will not lose it.

When the darkness begins to fade from below Sherlock’s waist, John’s head snaps up fast enough to give a good crack on the desk. He curses and takes a moment to remember where he is. God, every joint in his body is stiff. He must have fallen asleep while he was waiting. Willing to take the risk, he shifts painfully out from under the desk and onto his knees. Cautiously, John rises a few inches to peer over its surface. The room is empty. His gaze shoots to the clock. 1:26am.

“Jesus,” John says out loud.

The culprit is long since gone. At his flat, no doubt. John wonders how long the man will wait for him there, or if he will come back here. That thought ends the idea forming in his mind of sleeping in his office. He looks at the clock again. With one place on his mind, he tells himself he should just go to a hotel. He does not want to put Sherlock in danger and John has already pissed him off enough. What would turning up at his door after two in the morning elicit?

He should definitely go to a hotel. John puffs out a frustrated breath and rises from the floor, knowing exactly where he is going to go and hoping Sherlock does not kick him to the pavement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell in a handbasket, Jane, just what are you up to? John escaped that one by sheer, dumb luck. He may be a soldier, but he can sure think on his feet. And the suspense of the whole thing. Arg! When I was editing I kept thinking of the jabberwocky and something wicked this way comes. The guy was so close to the desk. Soooo clossssse. *shivers and then straightens to full height* Don't be hurting my doctah.
> 
> Well, now what shall we do now? Perhaps a little Q & A? Or just the Q, as it were because I'm not giving you any hints as to what happens next. Mwahaha.  
> 1\. Who the heck is this guy and why is he so intent on ending our dear doctor?  
> 2\. Who the hell did he call on his cell? Seems Sherlock may have been right about a hired killer. (Shit, that was an answer. I just can't help myself.)  
> 3\. When John gets to Sherlock's place will he, as John so eloquently put it, kick him to the pavement?  
> 4\. Will Sherlock even be awake? (Really? Is that even a question? *smirks*)  
> 5\. What will Sherlock make of this most recent attempt? Hmmm. At least John isn't wearing only boxers and a tee. Or is that a bad thing? A good thing? A hot thing. MM, YEAH.
> 
> I will see you again next weekend, my friends. Thank you for your love and support. You comments and kudos are treasured, as is each of you. Keep safe, stay inside, good work, good night. I'll most likely kill you in the morning. Hahaha. Bonus points if you know where that line was plucked from!  
> Love, Jane


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has an unexpected visitor. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, friends, am I using my powers for good? Am I?? I don't even know what to say about this one and I don't want to give anything away, like I haven't already. Ha! 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this one. Uh-oh. I feel myself slipping into Deadpool mode. Take a little time for yourself, friends. Sit down with a cold brew, maybe a good red wine, some bonbons, or maybe just a Kit Kat. Kit Kats are good. Put on some good, soft music and just groove while you read. That's it. And if you find yourself reaching for a unicorn, we'll just keep that to ourselves. Hahahaha!
> 
> I'll see you on the other side. Enjoy!

_ How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you? Would you tell me how could it be any better than this?  _

_ You’re all I want. You’re all I need. You’re everything. _

_ \--Lighthouse, Everything _

Sherlock opens his eyes slowly and shakes his head. The lights in the study are still on and the laptop screen glows with the website he was viewing before he fell asleep. He leans down to pick up the mouse from where he knocked it to the floor and puts his palm right into the small collection of drool that had formed on the desk. He looks at it with a disgusted grimace and quickly drops the mouse on the desk to reach for a tissue. 

He hears it again as he wipes his hand. A beeping chime. He blinks a few times. It takes his sleep addled brain a moment to process it as his phone and clearly what woke him. Sherlock debates on whether to answer it or ignore it in favor of continuing his research. Or simply collapse into his bed. With a sigh, Sherlock rises and goes to one of the cushioned chairs next to the fireplace in search of the noisy device. He does not know why he has two chairs. He has never invited anyone into this room, not even Molly. The leather chair in a rich, deep burgundy is the one he always sits in. It is wide and very comfortable and suits him perfectly. The dark green velvety one is a mystery. He still cannot remember why he bought it or what he was thinking at the time. It just seemed like a good match to his own chair at the time, like the two were meant to be together and he could not separate them.

Before he begins his search of the chair, the chime of the phone draws his eyes to the small table at the right of the chair. He knows who it is, of course. He gave the man his own ringtone, after all. He considers hitting ignore and going to his room. He even turns in that direction, but stops when he sees a notification of five missed calls from the same number. Sighing again, Sherlock picks up the phone and answers.

“John?”

“Hi. Good morning?” John’s voice is apprehensive. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock is terse and wants to get to the point quickly.

“Right. Well, I...I’d like to talk to you.”

“Fine. Talk.”

“I thought face to face would be better.”

“Why? It’s…” Sherlock asks testily as he glances at a clock, “2:15 in the morning, John. Jesus Christ.”

“I know. I’m sorry, but it’s very important.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes closed and pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

“Fine. Come over.”

Sherlock’s eyes pop open wide when the sound of gentle knocking reaches his ears. He walks to the door to the room and peers down the hall to the condo’s front door. He glances suspiciously in the opposite direction, toward his bedroom, and then back to the front door. He cannot see it from this position and steps out further into the hall.

“John, where are you?”

“Uh, funny thing, that,” John clears his throat and then says in a very serious voice. “I’m at your door.”

Sherlock instantly ends the call and drops his phone on a narrow table in the hall. Putting his hands on his hips, he stares down at it and puffs out a short, incredulous breath. He turns his head to look down the hall in disbelief. John is back. To talk to him. At 2-fucking-17 in the morning. Sherlock should be angry, he should be furious, but he isn’t. When John did not go to practice that afternoon, he was certain he would not see him again in any situation other than meetings. He thought that was the end of it when he stormed out and left John alone in his apartment. But here he is.

With a deep inhalation and his head held high, Sherlock strides down the hall and jerks the door open. John stares back at him in shock, jerking his head back a fraction in surprise. His phone is still in his left hand as though debating whether or not to call Sherlock back and try again. Sherlock scans his body and face, deducing everything in seconds. He narrows his eyes and gives John a severe look.

“You remained in your office this afternoon and then worked late into the evening. You have not been to your apartment, but...” Sherlock speaks in an accusing tone and glares at the doctor. Then his expression changes slightly, his brows beginning to arch upward. “Your attacker returned.”

He pauses when John gasps. There was no confrontation, but John is still visibly shaken and has certainly experienced some sort of trauma. Sherlock cocks a brow and shifts his weight for a better look. He can see the doctor is not injured this time, but feels he should make the inquiry regardless.

“John, are you all right?”

“I’m sorry,” the words seem to spill from his lips unbidden and he continues to stare at Sherlock. His surprise, however, quickly morphs into a sort of panic-stricken sincerity. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of those things. None of it is true. You’re the best friend I’ve ever… I’m sorry.”

Now it is Sherlock’s turn to gape. The best friend he has ever had? That is what he was going to say. Sherlock presses his lips into a thin line and almost shakes his head. Someone as friendly and likable as John has many friends. He gets along with everyone so easily. How could Sherlock be his best?

He tables the matter, tucking it away in his mind palace for later thought. He steps to the side and gestures John inside. There is a flash of astonishment in his eyes, but John still steps in silently. The two enter the living room together. John looks far calmer than he did at the door when Sherlock turns to face him again.

“Are you injured?” Sherlock knows the answer, but sticks with decorum.

“No,” John answers simply. He seems entranced, as if in shock. His eyes have not left Sherlock since they entered the room. Sherlock moves to sit on the long, plush couch and catches John’s hand with his own, pulling him down by his side.

“Tell me what happened,” he demands. “Leave nothing out.”

John looks up from their still joined hands with a look of wonder on his face. Sherlock glances down at them and releases John’s hand, pulling his own away. Seemingly dazed, John looks from Sherlock’s hand to his own for a moment. When he finally meets the coach’s eyes, John seems more himself and the clouds in his eyes have lifted. He presses his lips together and crinkles his brow.

“There’s not much to tell,” he says. “I was at my desk. Decided to call it a night. The bastard came in when I was hunched over to pick up a pen.”

Sherlock’s brows lower minutely, his eyes narrowing very slightly and sharpening as he watches John. A whole list of scenarios and theories start to play out in his mind. Many of them couple with individual details of John’s apartment from the night before. Details the attacker had not meant to leave, that no one was meant to see. But Sherlock did. 

“I ducked under my desk and held my breath until he left,” John blows out a long breath the way he must have done when his attacker left the office. Sherlock can see the tension in his body. “You were right.”

“What?” Sherlock’s deductions come to a screaming halt and he blinks for effect. “Sorry. I’m what?”

“Very funny,” John tips toward him for a split second with a grin on his face. He gives the coach a friendly shove and then leans back again. “Rub it in, why don’t you?”

“I will. Thank you,” Sherlock teases, his heart warmed at the sight of that spectacular smile. His eyes linger on John’s lips a little too long, but John does not seem to notice or care in the slightest. Sherlock quickly meets John’s eyes again and flashes a winning mile. “You’ll excuse me for a moment while I grab a pen and paper. I need to record the time and date.”

“All right, all right. Oi!” John grabs his hand when he begins to rise and pulls him back down. He lands a bit closer to John than he was, their thighs pressed together now and Sherlock’s stomach flips. His mind does too, stuttering for a moment as he looks at John.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks Sherlock cheekily.

Grinning like a fool now, Sherlock suddenly wants to pull the doctor into his lap and kiss him.

Kiss him?

God, he is so fucked.

Sherlock shrugs and doesn’t answer John at first, not trusting his own voice. But he cannot remain silent for long, especially when it means the joke will end and John’s bright, friendly eyes will fill with concern. Not that they would be any less beautiful, of course.

God damn, so fucked.

“Nowhere, apparently,” he answers coyly before he can catch himself. And what the fuck was that? He makes his voice more normal, pitches it a fraction higher and continues. “So what is it that I’m right about?”

“I can’t go back to my flat,” John sighs, his shoulders drooping. “Not until this guy is caught or gets bored with me.”

Sherlock’s brows raise a bit and he opens his mouth to speak, but does not get any words out.

“First place he went when he left the stadium,” John continues. “He spoke with someone on his mobile. He said he would check the exam rooms and then go back to my flat.”

Sherlock watches as John runs his hands through his hair. He shifts on the couch just enough that their thighs are no longer touching. Sherlock’s leg feels cold from the lack of contact. He tries not to let his mind file away the sensation of John’s warmth against his leg, not to imagine what it would feel like had it been skin on skin, but his efforts are in vain. At the very least, he pushes it all into a closet so he can think.

“I’ll get a hotel,” John sighs. “I just wanted to tell someone. Talk it out, you know?” 

He pauses, the war in his mind of whether or not to continue plain on his face. Sherlock wants to answer the unasked question.  _ No, it won’t be too much. I want to know. I  _ **_want_ ** _ to know. _ For a moment, Sherlock believes John will keep it to himself and then his forehead crinkles as he looks at Sherlock with uncertain eyes. 

“It scared the shit out of me,” he mutters quietly. “If I hadn’t dropped that pen, he would’ve walked right in and dropped me.”

“John,” his voice is so light, he can scarcely hear it himself. He moves a hand deftly to rest atop John’s. The room is silent. Neither man says a word. Even their breaths have the good sense not to be heard. And they look at one another. Watch one another. A whole conversation transpires between their eyes.

_ I can’t lose this.  _

_ You didn’t. It’s all right. _

_ I can’t lose you. _

_ You won’t. _

And then the spell is broken. It is gone as quickly as it came. Sherlock’s hand is on the couch instead of John’s hand and Sherlock almost doubts it happened at all. When he looks at John, the doctor has a thoughtful look on his face, as though weighing all the pros and cons of the plan he has conjured.

“You will not get a hotel,” Sherlock announces firmly. “You will stay here.”

“What? No, I can’t stay here. I’ll put you in danger.”

“If they wanted to hurt me, they would have tried by now.”

“That’s not… You may not be a target, but you could get in the crossfire.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that!”

“John,” Sherlock grabs onto his biceps and looks him straight in the eye, “I won’t believe you’re safe unless you’re here with me. If you stay in a hotel, I will go with you.”

“You can’t do that. It’s ridiculous!”

The coach fixes him with a determined glare and says nothing.

“Sherlock, you’ll get yourself killed,” John reprimands. 

For a moment, Sherlock is afraid he has said too much, pushed too hard. ‘A bit not good’, as John would say and he has already learned that the doctor does not like being told what to do. But then the corner of John’s mouth curls into a lopsided smile.

“Or locked up,” John finishes.

A grin blooms on Sherlock’s face and John quickly follows suit. He takes his hands from John’s arms, rests them on his own thighs, and pushes himself to standing. John does the same and they find themselves face to face, chest to chest. John inhales deeply as Sherlock exhales from his open mouth in tandem. God, John is beautiful. His scent is intoxicating, all vanilla and cinnamon and tea. Sherlock resists the urge to lean forward and breathe it in, but only just. Instead, he clears his throat and tries to sound nonchalant.

“I’ll find you something to sleep in. Would you like clean sheets?” he asks politely, shuffling backwards a step.

“No, no, the ones from last night are fine,” John waves a hand easily, but with their proximity, it runs right into Sherlock’s chest. He stares at it for a moment where it rests, palm down, on the taller man’s pectoral, his pinky a hair’s breadth from one nipple. 

Sherlock’s body tenses at first, but soon relaxes into the touch. John looks up at him, eyes searching and Sherlock wishes he could deduce him in these situations. He wants to know his every thought and feeling, but John becomes so hard to read when Sherlock wants to most. He is not sure if John is incredibly adept at hiding his emotions when he wants to or if Sherlock’s own mind simply gives up and drowns in all that is John. Perhaps the fact that he can say ‘these situations’ tells it all. But it doesn’t.

“Um,” John lifts his hand and the skin beneath Sherlock’s clothes feels immediately chilled at the loss of John’s warmth. John’s brows raise in uncertainty and his forehead wrinkles as he struggles for words. As adorable as it is, Sherlock bails him out.

“I’ll get those pajamas,” he nearly whispers and steps away.

“Right. I’ll just head for the bedroom then.”

“Please do,” Sherlock calls from down the hall. He cringes at his own words and the myriad of ways they could be interpreted. Resolving to exercise more caution, Sherlock rifles through his pajama drawer until he holds dark blue satin in his hands. The fabric is soft against his skin and he imagines the shiver John will feel when he puts it on. Oh, yes, he would very much like to see John in these. Which is why he should put them right back in the drawer and keep looking.

Sherlock shoves the pajamas under another pair and rolls his eyes. God, he’s such an idiot. Was his experience with Victor not enough? If Molly had not convinced him to leave California and coach derby, Sherlock honestly doesn’t know what would have become of him. Probably let Victor persuade him to come back and live out his life as a trophy, a sex object. Victor was good at making people accept blame and do what he wanted. It was not always that way, of course. He was sweet in college, but the better he became at practicing law, the more demanding he became and Sherlock found he could no longer live up to the expectations. Success can change a person and the resulting betrayal was what hurt most of all. 

Sherlock blinks his eyes and shakes his head. Jesus, he is getting maudlin. He grabs a pair of pajamas and heads for the spare bedroom. He must put a stop to this before it gets any worse. He cannot be in love with John Watson. Or anyone else, for that matter. He cannot open himself up to the kind of pain again.

Distracted by his thoughts, Sherlock pushes open the bedroom door John left ajar without knocking and is three steps in before he stops in his tracks, mouth hanging open. John is standing on his tiptoes on a chair, reaching up to unscrew the lightbulb from the ceiling fixture. He is illuminated by only the two bedside lamps and the white t-shirt he has on, sweater having been discarded, glows golden in the light. His hair is like a halo shining on his crown. A thin strip of stomach shows from where that golden tee rides up with his stretch. Sherlock’s breath catches. He snaps his mouth closed just in time for John to finish with the bulb and look down at him.

“Oh, hey,” he jumps to the floor. “This blew when I flipped the switch. Do you have any extras?”

“Yes, of course. In the supply closet,” Sherlock takes the grey one from his hand and holds out the pajamas. “I’ll go get one.”

“Ta,” John replies, taking the clothing. “Christ, Sherlock, these are the nicest pajamas I’ll have worn in the whole of my life! Are you sure you don’t want to give me another pair?”

“What?” he looks at John’s pajama clad hand and almost curses aloud when he sees that same dark blue pair he thought he had shoved back in the drawer. “No, no, it’s fine. As long as you don’t mind them pooling around your ankles.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and blows a long breath out of his nose. He could not have said anything more stupid if he tried. He angles his chin down and tilts his head ever so slightly with a grimace on his face. He wants to sink into a hole and disappear. He never wants to open his eyes again, at least not until John has left. John won’t, of course, Sherlock is in  **his** room, much like when he was in  **his** office. Oh, god. Sherlock’s eyes snap open in panic. They are going to live together until John’s attacker is caught and who knows how long that will be.

Quickly schooling his face, Sherlock looks at John with an uneasy gaze. John, on the other hand, seems to be perfectly at ease and wears a little grin on his face. He looks both like he knows something no one else does, and like Sherlock has done something incredibly funny and not at all offensive.

“I’m sorry,” he straightens his spine and continues in a most dignified manner. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“I know what you meant, you git,” John snorts. He pats Sherlock’s shoulder and smiles kindly. “Don’t worry about it.”

The coach nods once and tries to loosen his tense shoulders, especially the one John had touched. If it still tingles, Sherlock ignores it, as well as the flip of his damn stomach.

“Well then, I’ll just get changed then and call it a day,” John tells him. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

“Yes. Yes, I am definitely fine. Just fine,” he quirks a smile. “It’ll be nice to have some company.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John chuckles. “Working and now living together. You’ll get tired of me.”

“I’ll never get tired of you,” Sherlock says honestly.

John does not answer. He simply stares at Sherlock with gentle eyes, unabashed fondness showing in them. He tilts his head and wets his lips. Sherlock wonders what they feel like, what they taste like.  _ Stop it. Stop it! _

“I just…” Sherlock clears his throat. “I’ll let you get to bed.”

“All right,” John replies softly. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

Sherlock turns to leave and has nearly closed the door when a thought springs to mind. He spins on his heel and shoves the door open again. John stares in surprise, taking a step back.

“I spoke to Molly,” Sherlock blurts.

“What?”

“I left the stadium early last night to visit and she remembered something.”

“Right!” John tosses the pajamas aside and steps up to Sherlock again. “The note! I forgot all about it. She left a note for me, but there weren’t any details. It said she told you though. I was going to come here straight away, but…well... I went home instead.”

Sherlock ignores thoughts of shots fired and John sliding down the fire escape. He resolutely keeps his mind on what Molly told him, so he does not imagine John’s body lying cold and motionless in his apartment or in the alley.

“Molly skidded into the pack and hit hard. All four of them went down,” he says, setting the stage once again.

“I remember,” John nods.

“Do you remember StartUp putting her hand on the back of Molly’s neck?”

“Well, sure. I figured she was trying to jam her head into that other blocker’s elbow,” John replies thoughtfully. “That Moriarty has rules all his own.”

“He does, indeed,” Sherlock’s lip curls into a snarl. He leans in conspiratorially and continues. “Molly remembers feeling a sharp pain in the back of her neck just before they all fell. She didn’t take notice in the scuffle and was distracted by the nosebleed after. Even when she did think of it a couple days ago, she ignored it. Just part of falling in a mass of other people, but it occurred to her again earlier today and when it did, she just couldn’t shake the idea that there was something wrong about it.”

“The puncture!” John’s eyes are wide and excited, like working out a mystery is his calling. “It was StartUp. But how could she hide a needle in her wristguard?”

“Moriarty would find a way,” Sherlock’s voice is grim. “The man is ruthless and very smart.”

“You think he knew?”

“I think he planned it.”

“Sherlock,” John says in disbelief, shaking his head, “I know you thought one of the Demons was responsible from the beginning…”

“Moriarty from the beginning.”

“And now it looks like you were right…”

“I am right.”

“But that doesn’t mean Moriarty is involved.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock scoffs. “He knows every dirty move his team plays. He conceived of most of them.”

“But we have no real proof of that, Sherlock.”

“Then we’ll get some,” he draws up to his full height, his shoulders back. “I’m going to make sure Jim Moriarty rots in prison for this.”

“And I’ll do everything I can to help,” John vows. Sherlock meets John’s eyes. He knows John is not convinced Moriarty is responsible, but would still pledge to help Sherlock regardless of the culprit.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says and means it. He cannot explain why, but he would trust John with his life and that sentiment prompts him to confess more of his suspicions, in spite of what he knows John will say. “I believe he may also be responsible for Billy’s poisoning and the attacks on you.”

“Sherlock, no. No,” he shakes his head. “He can’t be connected to all of them. And if he had been the man after me, I’d have recognized his voice. It’s too distinctive not to. Even whispering the way he was, I would be able to tell.”

“He wouldn’t do the dirty work himself,” Sherlock scoffs again. “He likely out-sourced it.”

“A contracted killer? Sherlock,” John says it in the same tone of voice Mrs. Hudson uses when lightly scolding him. ‘Oh, Sherlock.’ He is about to begin a diatribe on the evil deeds of Jim Moriarty, but John derails his thoughts. 

“I don’t know him well, but I would think he’d not want to let in any more people than he has to, especially in a murder scheme. He’s very visible in this city and around the country, if you’re in the right circles. A random hitman or idiot with a gun may decide to spill the beans or extort him later, yeah?”

Sherlock holds the doctor in his gaze, a corner of his mouth turning up. John Watson is a goddamn genius. None of what he said is something Sherlock had not already considered, but for John to reason through it all right before his eyes - to see his brilliant mind work - to Sherlock, it is absolutely breathtaking. God, how he loves him.

_ Shit. _

“Sherlock?” John asks, sounding a little concerned. 

Sherlock realizes it has been much too long since he had last spoken. Not only has he been staring blankly, lost in thought, but John asked him a question.

“I lov…” he stops himself abruptly, mind catching up with his mouth, and his stomach roils. 

_ Fuck! _

What the fuck is he thinking? Sherlock had been a breath away from saying it out loud, for fuck’s sake! How is that an appropriate answer to  **any** question John could have asked him? Have  **all** of his mental faculties so abandoned him that he would say the absolute stupidest thing he could in this moment? Because that wouldn’t end their association immediately. And all due to goddamn sentiment.

Feelings.

Feelings he cannot push away, dismiss or bury no matter how hard he tries. No room or door in his mind palace will hold them. John Watson is extraordinary and his mind will not let him forget it, even for a moment. Christ, it’s like a bad romance novel. Right down to Sherlock’s complete uncertainty about John. He could be straight or bi or asexual for all he knows - Sherlock really has no idea and, as the clueless heroine, why would he?

He has not seen John flirt with anyone or heard any rumors. Sometimes he thinks John is flirting with him, but the doctor becomes so confusing in those moments and is nearly impossible to deduce. Sherlock hates it. Technically, he should not be deducing John anyway, honoring his pledge to everyone on staff. But John is so intriguing and the fact that he cannot deduce him is actually captivating, even if it is infuriating.

“Sherlock?” John asks again. Sherlock’s eyes come back into focus to see him wearing a grin and chuckling. “By god, I think I’ve broken you.”

“Funny,” he smirks, hoping to hide his mistake. “I was merely considering your words.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t pretend you hadn’t already thought of that. I know you better than that,” he shoves Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock knows he should joke back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks back thoughtfully and whispers softly.

“You do. You know me better than anyone has.”

John’s smile fades and his eyes soften, but he says not a word. The air around them becomes heavy and yet, also crackles with emotion, attraction, expectation. John shuffles forward, putting them closer than colleagues should be once again. His hand brushes Sherlock’s and he just controls the shiver it spurs. Sherlock shifts his gaze down to John’s chest and tries not to think about how much he wants to pull him to his own body and crash their lips together. God, it would be bliss. Sherlock feels intoxicated and unsteady, lost in all he wants and cannot have. 

He shifts his hand away from John’s and raises his eyes to a deep blue gaze that is focused solely on him. 

“Good night, John.”

Disappointment flashes in John’s eyes, but is quickly replaced with disingenuous mirth. A small smile he clearly does not feel follows.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, What the fuck, Jane? You lead us down this path and then SCREECH! You put on the breaks! You are evil. EEEEEEVILLLLLLL. Hey, there's a song about that. Eeeeevil Womahn. Hahahaha! 
> 
> I can't help myself. Take some solace in knowing it happens to me too. I really surprise myself with some of the stuff I write because even I have forgotten some of the nitty-gritty by the time I've finished a story and begin typing and editing. It's true, really. When I edited this one, I got to the end and just exhaled a quiet "uhh". I felt totally deflated and thought 'Damn, Jane, you really wound me up for that goodnight'. I felt like John with the disappointment in my eyes and whatnot. I do hope you have all come to love my villainy be cause it isn't going to stop. Mwahahaha! (diabolical laughter, diabolical acting) More bonus points if you know where that one's from.
> 
> Quiz Time!!  
> 1\. When is Sherlock going to stop fighting with himself and just fess up? For fuck's sake!  
> 2\. Is John right about the risk to Sherlock now that he's living with him?  
> 3\. And, btw, how is THAT going to work? Sherlock is right to have a mild freak out over that one.  
> 4\. And when will the object of his affection finally admit he feels something too?  
> 5\. Why are they such idiots?  
> 6\. Why doesn't this fic warn readers that it's slowburn torture? Haha! Did you notice? I added it. I am much too clever for you naughty people. Heehee.
> 
> I do hope this chapter has found you all well and safe. My thoughts are always with all of you. I cherish every one.   
> As trite as it may sound, I mean that as much as I mean this.. Keep your stick on the ice. We're all in this together.  
> Love, Jane


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John tell Greg what's been going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I’m coming off the shittiest week since this whole shelter in place thing started. Just seems like everything is getting me, the little things, ya know? Then I did so much work tearing down an exhibit that my back wanted to end me for a good two days. I watched the National Theater streaming Frankenstein with Benedict as the monster. He made me feel the monster's plight like I have never felt before, just as he did with The Grinch. My good friend, Superwholocklmt tells me I'm an empath who really tunes into other people's feelings and pain. I think she's right because I was crying and could not reign it in for the longest time. I think i'm finally to the point where I can think about it without it bothering me.
> 
> Anyway, enough of the psyche of Jane. Let's just say I can’t tell you how happy I am to stumble into this world of derby and Sherlock and John today. This is a shorter chapter, but I hope you feel the same way and find quiet, happy respite like I did. Love you all!

_Sometimes a shadow wins, but I wonder what would happen if you_

_say what you want to say and let the words fall out._

_Honestly, I wanna see you be brave._

_– Sara Bareilles, Brave_

“You’re fucking kidding me!”

“Now just calm down,” Greg Lestrade rises from the chair behind his desk. His hands are out in a placative gesture and he quickly side steps around the desk to stop in front of the furious man before him. Cold, hard grey eyes burning with fury are trained on him as he moves. If looks could kill he would be flat on the floor. Greg might have considered appealing to John to diffuse the situation, but he is just as angry.

“Greg, you can’t be serious,” John says incredulously. “Given what Molly remembers and the indications of a puncture wound on the back of her neck.”

“No, I get it, but we still can’t accuse anyone of anything on the basis of that,” he counters.

Sherlock lurches at Greg and stops inches from him. Looking down at the GM, eyes still blazing, he paints a frightening picture. In spite of it, Greg stands his ground and looks directly in the face of the taller man. 

“Just what kind of evidence do we need, hm?” Sherlock growls in a deep voice. “A bottle of poison with Moriarty’s name on it? A body? Would that be enough for these incompetents?”

“God, Sherlock, really?” Greg rolls his eyes. The coach always was a drama queen, even from the beginning. He doesn’t usually get this carried away though and he clearly has John’s buy in.

“There was poison in her system, Greg. A lot of it,” John interjects. “There’s no way it could’ve gotten there without someone administering it.”

Greg is already shaking his head, looking John’s way.

“They poisoned her, Greg,” Sherlock mutters in a low voice, fury bubbling beneath.

“The timing checks out,” John continues. “It happened on the track.”

“It won’t stand,” Greg tells them, resolutely ignoring the fuming coach inches away from him. Greg wants to put a little space between himself and Sherlock, but refuses to give even the slightest impression that he is backing down. “Molly took a hard hit. She was falling fast and knocked her face right into an elbow. She could have mistaken anything for the poke of a needle. And how the hell could they get a syringe on the track? Tell me that.”

“Obviously he has conceived of some other method of delivery,” Sherlock snaps.  
“Oh, of course, I’d forgotten that Moriarty is some kind of criminal genius. Come on, Sherlock.”

“Look, how else do you explain the poison?” John presses in next to Sherlock, nudging him out of Greg’s face. The GM is certain it was not done to make him more comfortable, but is glad for the distance nonetheless.

“I don’t know, John, but we can’t go hurling accusations around without concrete proof, especially with something as serious as this.”

“They tried to kill her, Greg. If John hadn’t been there, they may have succeeded and with the threat on his…” Sherlock stops suddenly, his voice full of emotion. Greg’s eye shift between the two of them as John gives the taller man an undisguised look saying ‘What the fuck’. Greg clenches his jaw and presses his lips into a thin line. This is 100 percent not on. He may not be ready to jump on the Moriarty is a killer bandwagon, but they are **not** keeping secrets from him. This is his team and these two idiots are part of it. He cannot manage shit if he doesn’t have all the facts.

“What is going on?” Greg’s voice is calm, but commanding and maybe a touch apprehensive. “Tell me. Now.”

The men glance at one another like two school boys who have been caught out. Sherlock’s expression is one of apology for saying too much and John’s is resignation.

“The last two nights,” John pauses and Greg’s brows dart up in expectation, his face exuding impatience, “a man in a mask has tried to kill me.”

“What?!” Greg’s jaw drops. He doesn’t know what to say. He has absolutely no idea. John has not been with the organization long and is not acquainted with all… Forget it. They don’t have enemies, save the Demons, and they are just rivals, really. And murder? No, no, no. It can’t be something from John’s past. He is squeaky clean, perhaps the most likable person on the planet, which really just leaves one thought in Greg’s mind. “What the fuck is going on?”

“When he entered his home Wednesday evening, John was attacked,” Sherlock explains, sounding significantly more calm than he had the rest of the meeting. “He managed to escape..”

“What kind of attack?” Greg interrupts, directing the question to John, but Sherlock continues speaking right over the GM.

“The same man made another attempt here last night.”

“What did you say?” Greg growls slowly. Neither one answers, only staring at Greg after his sudden change in demeanor from confounded to absolute anger. “Someone threatened John in **my** stadium?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies matter of factly. “Though, technically, this is not your stadium.”

“Shut it, Holmes,” Greg’s eyes flash with fury as he directs them to John. “What happened exactly?”

Greg remains silent while John tells the tales of the previous nights, including this morning when he spoke to that irritating detective again. When he is finished, Greg’s fury has not diminished, but he has reigned it in.

“Oh my god,” John mutters as he finishes. “If this is truly all connected, Molly could still be in danger!”

“She is safe, John,” Sherlock assures him. “I called in a favor long ago. Mycroft is his name. He was an officer and then chief of police in Tampa before retiring early and moving to Detroit. He does short stints as a security guard when he gets bored and spends the rest of his time as he pleases. He has been watching Molly’s room nearly the whole of her hospital stay and will continue to do so.”

“Mycroft? Why haven’t I seen him?”

“No one is meant to see him, John,” Sherlock taps the end of his nose with a single finger.

“D’you think they are connected?” Greg asks them. They look at him and then one another. Neither looks completely certain, as if each wants to say yes, but just cannot be sure. They need more data, as Sherlock would say.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock finally admits, “but it is too much to be a coincidence.”

“It is at that.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“I know,” Greg meets his eyes and then John’s with a very serious gaze. “So we keep our eyes and ears open. If something’s going on, we’ll see it. I know you have it all stored in that brain of yours. Have all the accidents in the past been against the Demons?”

“No,” Sherlock replies.

“Well, that complicates things.”

“Indeed.”

“There’s something else, Greg. Something we do think is connected,” John pauses and looks to Sherlock meaningfully.

“Well, I can’t wait to hear this,” Greg crosses his arms over his chest. John hesitates. “Oh, come on. You can’t say that and not tell me.”

“Billy Wiggins was poisoned,” John finally says. Greg’s jaw drops again and he stumbles back a step, resting his backside on the desk for balance and knocking over a pencil holder in the process. “That’s why he retired. He told Molly after he left and he told me too. About a week after I started.”

“Holy shit,” Greg says bluntly. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to wrap his head around it all.

“Now you know our suspicions. What we lack is proof,” Sherlock begins sharply. 

When Greg opens his eyes, the coach is closer and wearing the same face he does in the huddle. The face that motivates every one of the ladies to kick ass on the track, and Greg feels it too. It starts down in the pit of his gut and roils up inside his body, bringing with it new focus and determination until Hell, yeah, we’re gonna find who’s behind it and we’ll make ‘em pay!

“Dig back in your files,” he turns to Sherlock.

“My what?”

“Whatever you store things in, search it all,” Greg clarifies in a stern voice. “Look for any similarities or people who were always there.”

“I already…”

“Do it again,” Greg interrupts, “and tell me what you find. In the meantime, we have to watch everyone and everything at our bouts. If they’re trying to take us out, they’ll try again.”

“Possibly sooner rather than later,” Sherlock adds. “We’re at the top of the league and will stay there, if I have anything to say about it.”

“Exactly,” Greg says emphatically, pointing a finger. He turns to John suddenly. “And we need to keep you safe.”

“Already done,” John tells him. “I’m bunking at Sherlock’s.”

Greg stops all movement and stares at John, first like he hadn’t heard him and then like he has two heads. He blinks once and leans forward slightly. 

“You’re bunking at Sherlock’s,” he repeats slowly. “You’re...really?”

“Yeah,” John glances at the tall man. “Why is that so strange?”

“Uh...It’s not,” Greg backpedals, also glancing at Sherlock and receiving a death glare. “Not at all. I just… He doesn’t usually invite people over, you know?”

“Well, he didn’t really invite me,” John says with some embarrassment and a hand cupping the back of his neck.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. The conversation is unbearable. What Greg said is one of the lamest covers he has ever tried to pull off and John doesn’t believe a word of it. Thank god he has decided to spare Sherlock and not press the point. Instead of advancing on Greg to find out exactly what he meant, John steps away and reaches for the door.

“We’ll meet every week and compare notes, yeah?” John nods after he is given an affirmative from both men. He turns in the doorway and winks at Sherlock playfully. “See you at practice.”

He clicks his tongue and slips out the door, closing it on his way. With a small smile on his lips, Greg lets his eyes slide from the door to his coach. Sherlock is glaring back at him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” his deep baritone booms while not actually raising beyond normal volume.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Greg says quickly, biting his lip. “I wasn’t expecting that. Who would expect that? You could’ve given me some warning.”

“And how was I to do that, hm?” Sherlock snaps. “We came straight from my place. I couldn’t very well ask him to give us a minute.”

“I know, I know,” Greg runs a hand through his hair. “Look, maybe he won’t bring it up again. He dropped it, didn’t he? He just thinks you’re a private person.”

_Who wants to live in a cave and have no contact with anyone else. Christ, Greg._

“Because there are more important matters at hand,” Sherlock bends at the knees for emphasis with all-out annoyance on his features. “As soon as he gets home tonight, he’ll start asking questions and what am I supposed to say? Greg was surprised I’d let you live with me because I ‘like you’? Jesus Christ!”

“Sorry,” Greg cringes. Sherlock rakes his hands through his curls and turns to the GM in abject frustration.

“It’s bad enough that you deduced it with your limited faculties…”

“Steady on.”

“...but do you have to tell everyone?”

“I haven’t told anyone,” Greg protests indignantly.

“But you nearly told the one person who absolutely cannot know!”

“Sherlock, I’ve known you for ten years, it’s hard not to pick up on...wait. Why can’t he know?”

“What??” Sherlock ceases his pacing and gesturing to stare at Greg, utterly taken aback. Greg’s lips creep up on one side, giving him a kind of crooked smile. He has the upper hand now and intends upon using it to the fullest. 

“Why can’t he, Sherlock?” he asks with a sly look in his eye. Sherlock stares a moment longer and then shakes his head dismissively, resuming the pacing. “He’s a great guy.”

Greg teases and grins at Sherlock’s irritation, even as he pretends to ignore him. He watches the man he has worked with so long and has come to call a friend, trying not to chuckle at his grumblings. And then, quickly dropping all pretense and fixing Sherlock with a serious gaze, he goes for the jugular.

“Molly agrees with me, you know.”

Sherlock stops dead and stares straight ahead, every muscle in his body rock hard with tension. He turns to Greg abruptly, livid and eyes blazing.

“I visit her too,” Greg shrugs at the unasked question.

“It is none of your business,” Sherlock begins in a voice of quietly controlled fury.

“Oh, come on,” Greg barks as he stands to his full height. “How long have we worked together? Too long for this bullshit.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to fly at the GM, but does not say a word. To Greg’s surprise, he merely stands poised for battle and then lets his arms slowly drop to his sides. His shoulders sag ever so slightly as all the fight drains out of him. Greg continues in a kinder tone.

“Look, I only know what I’ve been able to piece together when it comes to Victor Trevor,” he says and Sherlock visibly bristles at the name, “but I know a hell of a lot about John Watson. If you’re worried about him changing once you’re involved, don’t.”

“What could you possibly…”

“John is genuine,” Greg talks over him and, for once, the younger man bites his tongue. In fact, it may be the first time it has ever happened. “What you see is real, not a facade. John knows who he is and has no interest in pretending otherwise. Not for anything or anyone.”

“If he’s so forthright, why has he given not even an inkling of his feelings on the matter?” Sherlock sniffs haughtily to hide his frustration.

“What do you mean?” Greg asks. When Sherlock only stares back pointedly, the smile on Greg’s face fades.

“You’re serious,” he says in disbelief. “You know everything in a glance and you can’t see that he’s into you?”

“John is different,” Sherlock mutters, straightening and avoiding eye contact.

“He must be,” Greg huffs. “Must be a damn miracle-worker.”

Sherlock looks at him with a withering expression.

“Look, if you don’t know where you stand, there’s only one way to find out.”

“I can’t, Greg.”

Greg’s eyes widen as he takes a step back, nearly running afoul of the desk again. Sherlock is unrecognizable. Gone is the confident and calculating derby coach. He looks pale and vulnerable and much younger than Greg has ever seen. The GM knows in an instant he was never meant to see this side of the coach. This side he shows only to Molly.

“I’ve given it all up,” Sherlock says fiercely, but his voice trembles. “Love, relationships. I let myself fall in love and it nearly broke me. I can’t let myself be hurt like that again. I threw myself into derby and never looked back.”

“Until now,” Greg says, filling the silence after the other man has grown quiet. He takes a step closer and meets the coach’s sad gaze. “If there’s one thing I know it’s that life is about taking risks and it’s okay to be scared, but not to let it control us.”

He raises his hand slowly and places it on Sherlock’s shoulder. Greg thinks the taller man may pull away, but he doesn’t.

“You’re happy with your life. You have Molly and derby and all of us. But think how great it could be if you’d just take a chance,” Greg pauses to let the words sink in. “You were alone when Victor hurt you, but you aren’t anymore. We’re family and it’s not just shit Mrs. Hudson touts when she’s had an herbal soother.”

Sherlock sighs and looks at him. Greg studies him and he’ll be goddamned if Sherlock doesn’t believe him. The man who would have scoffed any other time in his life and accused Greg of enacting the role of older brother in an after school special is actually listening. He is actually accepting support when he needs it instead of turning away and shutting everyone out but Molly. The man is actually growing up.

“We can help if you stumble,” Greg says quietly, “but I don’t think you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, it was hard to come up with lyrics for this one. 
> 
> Do I try to find something to go with John and Sherlock telling Greg what’s been going on, but how hard is that? Believe me, HARD. I kept looking at songs that give you courage to go into the breach, as it were, but nothing fit. At all. 
> 
> So I decided to go with the end of the chapter, the conversation between Sherlock and Greg. When I first typed it up, I thought it was really clunky and wasn’t sure I liked it, but when I read through it again and again, it fell into place. I hope you all think so too and get my choice of song. 
> 
> And now.....drum roll.....wait for it.....you know what's coming.....I am suddenly feeling very silly........and it feels so good.......  
> QUESTION TIME!  
> 1\. Now that Greg's in on it, will their three pairs of eyes catch something in the bouts to come?  
> 2\. Will there be another attempt on Molly's life? (I can't help but smirk here. You knew I'd bring Mycroft into this somehow.)  
> 3\. Will there be another attempt on John's life?  
> 4\. Is Sherlock on the hitlist and, if so, when will the attacker come for him?  
> 5\. Will Sherlock survive living with John and will he finally "be brave" and talk to him about his feelings?  
> 6\. Just what will John say? We know he is attracted to Sherlock, but has his own misgivings. Hmmm....
> 
> There are many more questions, my friends, but I have to stop somewhere. Feel free to submit your own questions and we'll chat. Haha. I feel like that character from SNL with the thick New York accent. Cawfee Tawk! Yes, that's what her show was called! And she loves Barbara Streisand. Anyway, I feel like "I'll give you a tawpic: Sherlawk and Jawn are clearly in love, so why don't they say it awlready? Tawlk amongst yourselves." Hahahaha.  
> See you again next weekend, my friends!  
> Love, Jane


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team goes to Baltimore for an away.
> 
> Btw, I'm pretty sure there's a pretty glaring spelling error somewhere in the second half, but I couldn't find it when I read through again. I may have corrected it, but I still might have missed it. My apologies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends! I’ve been working off and on all day to get this one out because I’ll be stupid busy tomorrow with it being mother’s day and all. As it is, I have to keep stopping for long periods of time when all I really want to do is post this and work on my bedazzling project. Gah. And I thought week days were exasperating. It’s so hard to tell the difference now anyway. Oh, shit. I need to do the laundry. And it's 7pm already. Fuck. When did that happen? Also, a lego campout set just arrived in the mail and I want to put it together instead of saving it for my daughter. Ha! I'm just evil.
> 
> Speaking of which, I think you'll be agreeing by the end of this one. It’s a pretty good chapter, if I do say so myself. I was breathless when I finished editing. Someone on Tumblr is already commenting on it. How can people read it so quickly?? I guess I really am a notoriously slow reader. Anyway, enjoy!

_Sorry if I'm speaking out of line, b_ _ut I don't want this night to be over_

_I don't want it to end._

_'Cause it seems like when our worlds collide, i_ _t just don't feel right not to hold ya._

_It's getting hard to be friends._

_Do you feel what I feel the closer that we get?_

_It’s almost like there’s a force that we can’t resist._

_Baby, tell me why, why you wanna stop what’s happening inside._

_It’s bigger than you and me._ _It’s like we’re fighting gravity._

_\--NKOTB, Fighting Gravity_

For the next three weeks, the three men watch everything at bouts as closely as they can. Whether home or away, Greg and John are always stationed in locations where, between them, they can see every inch of the track and every member of both teams. Sherlock does his best to help while still coaching Rock City. But nothing happens. There are no suspicious injuries or accidents, nothing but the usual rough and tumble of a bout.

Similarly, there are no further attempts on John’s life, or Molly’s. Mycroft continues to keep an eye on her through PT and in her room. Sherlock has even walked in on the two of them in the throws of a ruthless chess game. Mycroft has also proved useful in obscuring John’s whereabouts. After picking up enough clothing to last a couple of weeks, along with a few other items, John drove to a hotel and made it look as though he had checked in while actually leaving for Sherlock’s condo. John repeated this every two or three days so he appeared to be moving around. 

Unfortunately, Mycroft agreed with Greg that they do not have enough evidence to prove anything and that it would be useless to go to the police. Plus, that would only alert Moriarty to their suspicions. Instead, Mycroft enlisted the help of a few friends on the force who could look into Moriarty’s activities without being noticed. There had been no news thus far and with no further attempts on anyone, Sherlock and the others must simply maintain the holding pattern. Something will happen soon enough and they must all be ready for it, but the frustration of waiting becomes more and more evident, especially in his new roommate. 

“God, I’m so tired of doing this every night,” John had said one evening, just after walking in the door. “I wish I could just come straight home and relax.”

Sherlock had meant to respond, but the words stuck in his throat. Home, John had said. _Just come home_ and he had meant Sherlock’s condo. **With** Sherlock. At least that is what Sherlock wants to believe.

He never did find his voice before John continued speaking. John did not think better of saying the word and Sherlock never brought it up, not wanting to hear John correct himself. Sherlock knows he should forget it, assume it was a slip of the tongue and not pin any hopes on it. His conversation with Greg weeks ago has still not motivated him to say a word to John for fear of what the doctor will say. For the time being, he would still rather live in ignorance and misguided hope than know John does not think of him in that way.

Sherlock pushes open the door to his hotel room, key card in his mouth, a bag in one hand and a garment bag flung over his shoulder. His dark curls are all askew and one falls onto his forehead, nearly into his eye as he stumbles his way into the suite. He blows it off his face only to have it drop right back down and barges head-long into the bedroom.

Dropping his bags onto the bed unceremoniously, Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and sighs. They boarded Mrs. Hudson’s charter plane that morning, destined for Baltimore and a bout against the Rolling Ravens. With the bout on the following day, they loaded a bus and went straight from the airport to the practice facility to get some footwork and scrimmaging in. It is now around 5:30 and, having just arrived at the Sussex, they are all dropping bags in their rooms and meeting back on the bus for dinner.

Sherlock walks into the bathroom and flicks on the light. He turns on the water and splashes some on his face. Once, twice. He buries his face in a soft, plush towel and holds it for a moment. Sherlock is exhausted. He always is after a flight. He does not like flying and every muscle in his body tenses to remind him of it. He can never rest his mind either, scenario after scenario rushing from room to room of his mind palace, giving him not a moment’s peace. John tried to sit next to him the first flight of the season, but Sherlock did not want him to witness his quiet panic so he convinced him to sit elsewhere. He told John he liked having time to himself when, in truth, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to have John by his side forever. After that, John did not try sitting by Sherlock again.

Sherlock pulls the towel from his face and opens his eyes, brow furrowed. He presses his lips together, shaking his head and hanging up the towel. He is still so far gone on John Watson, despite his efforts to stop himself. All of which have been fruitless, he might add. Sherlock puts his hands on his hips and gives his reflection a very unamused look. 

“You are so screwed,” he mumbles to himself. He studies his features for a moment and scowls. Walking into the suite’s living room, Sherlock diverges and heads for the kitchenette to pull a bottle of water from the small fridge. His phone pings with a text as he snags a bottle. He opens it and takes a drink while pulling the phone from his pocket. He knows exactly who it is. He has given him a particular ping. Greg, the bastard, noticed right away and has teased him whenever they are alone ever since. In spite of all protestations to the contrary, Greg is truly the big brother Sherlock never had.

*Coming down to dinner, yeah? Waiting on you and The Woman.*

Sherlock cocks a brow and replies.

*On my way. I’ll swing by her room*

*No need. She just turned up. Only you now.*

Sherlock smirks and caps the water bottle, carrying it with him when he walks to the door. He should take a minute and hang his suits for the bouts, but they will be fine. He can always steam them while he showers if they wrinkle.

He runs through tomorrow’s plan while the elevator takes him to the lobby. He has plenty of time as it stops on nearly every floor to pick up what always seems to be a parent with children bound for the hotel swimming pool. He rolls his eyes and tries to concentrate over the din. The bout starts at seven, the ladies have all afternoon to do weights on their own with warm-ups starting around 5:30. Since they put in a long practice today, on top of the flight, tomorrow morning is free for sight-seeing and relaxation. Sherlock has heard some of the ladies making plans, mostly involving spas and massages. For his money, there are several historic sites to choose from, not the least of which is the home of Edgar Allan Poe.

The elevator doors finally open at the lobby and all of its occupants exit. Sherlock follows the crowd without much thought until he catches the eye of a tall blonde looking his way. It is only a glance and Sherlock thinks nothing of it for a few steps. Then the feeling of cold realization hits him and he stops. It’s a threat, danger. Sherlock’s sharp eyes shoot back to the man, but he is gone. He looks around and sees nothing. Slowly, he makes his way to the hotel’s revolving doors, wishing for the first time that Greg had been able to come with them. Sherlock and John must keep an eye on the proceedings alone and Sherlock definitely has an uneasy feeling now.

Sherlock sees the Rock City bus as soon as he steps away from the hotel, right where he left it. As he walks toward it, he once again considers how he and John can best watch everything they need to throughout the bout. He has been to the stadium many times before, but John has never seen its track and Sherlock plans to discuss it with him at dinner. Ironically, the doctor is the very person he meets as he climbs up the bus’ three steps.

“There you are,” John beams. “They were about to send out a search party and believe me when I say they would’ve carried you out here kicking and screaming. It was all I could do to hold them back.”

“A Herculean feet indeed,” Sherlock snarks.

“Christ, Coach, where have you been?” HardOn cries upon catching sight of him. “We’re starving!”

“You should know by now not to keep us waiting,” Hella teases, standing at her seat with a knee resting on its cushions.

“No man should ever make a lady wait,” The Woman lifts a seductive brow and clicks her teeth. “Even I am ravenous.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sally snorts. “Where the hell were you?”

“I was tending to something very important.”

“What’s her name?”

Irene gives Sally a very sly, knowing look and the two dissolve into snickers.

“All right, ladies,” Sherlock announces. “Everyone sit down and behave yourselves.”

“Yes, papa,” HardOn quips as heads begin to drop, the skaters finding their seats. She casts a glance at John and jokes. “Don’t let him tell you what to do, Ph.D. Keep him in line.”

“I’ll do my best,” John laughs from his own seat in the front.

Sherlock counts heads, making sure to see the face of every skater and support staffer before turning to the driver who sits directly in front of his seat.

“Lawrence, we’re all here. Shall we go to our usual haunt?”

“The diner awaits,” the man replies with a kind smile.

Sherlock thanks him and sits down. He looks back at the skaters again and then gazes across the aisle at John. He has a curious expression on his face. His lips turned up on one side in that crooked smile Sherlock loves so much. His stomach flips, even as he affects nonchalance.

“What?” he asks, grinning almost like a fool.

“This is a hired bus and yet, you know the driver?” John replies, making no effort to hide his smile.

“We always use the same company,” Sherlock answers, “and we always request Lawrence. He chauffeured us around my first time here and every one since.”

“Ah, I see,” John says fondly. “You get attached to people, don’t you?

“I most certainly do not!” Sherlock raises his chin, straightening his long neck. He looks down his nose at John. “I merely appreciate a job well done.”

“Right, right,” John replies. The expression on his face just as fond as his tone. He also looks very amused. Sherlock’s cheeks grow pink and his stomach flips again. **He** put that look on John’s face.

They arrive at Krispin’s Diner nearly an hour later, colonially themed and larger than one normally expects a diner to be. Perfect for their over-sized group. They are able to get tables fairly close together, in spite of the busy night. The evening passes nicely enough as they all eat, joke and laugh. Unfortunately, the opportunity to talk through the bout does not arise, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. However, there is a restaurant in the hotel and he intends to speak with John once they are there. It might be better to do it alone anyway. 

Two hours after they arrived, they are all climbing into the bus again. Sherlock grabs John’s elbow lightly before the man gets a foot on the first step. He pulls the doctor aside and speaks to him quietly as skaters continue disappearing into the vehicle.

“Would you join me in the hotel restaurant? We need to talk about tomorrow.”

John gives him a very serious nod. 

Upon reaching the Sussex, Sherlock ushers the skaters to the elevators while telling them all to a good night’s sleep. He knows full well none of them will. About half will sneak out and the other will behave as though at a college slumber party. His and John’s only hope is that they not play any pranks on them in the night. Either way, none will get to sleep before 1am and will likely waste the morning sleeping in. Although, John has made an effort to have everyone up by nine for a team breakfast at all the away bouts thus far. To Sherlock’s surprise, the skaters have embraced the idea and most are up to join him.

When the last of the ladies have entered the elevators and the doors have closed, Sherlock turns to see John leaning against the wall in wait. Sherlock walks to him and nods in the direction of the restaurant entrance. John nods in return and follows. Soon they are seated at a quiet table in the corner, each with a drink. Sherlock watches John take a sip of his scotch and then look at the liquid with approval. He turns his eyes to the coach after placing the glass on the table.

“So, the stadium,” John begins, “you’ve been there before.”

“Many times,” Sherlock grabs a napkin and fishes a pen from his breast pocket. He starts to draw a diagram of the track and team boxes, the spectator areas, every detail he can think of. He looks up to John when finished to see him already studying the diagram closely.

“Since it’s just the two of us, I think you should watch the bout from here. It’s close enough to our box if needed and you will be able to see anything I can’t,” Sherlock tells him while pointing at different locations on the map.

“Looks good,” John nods. They discuss the logistics a bit more and then both sip their forgotten drinks, satisfied with the plan. That is until John gives Sherlock that look. It’s the look John wears when he knows there is something else on Sherlock’s mind. His ability to know Sherlock so well is infuriating, especially when John himself remains a mystery so much of the time.

“So.”

“So?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve already told you. We’ve discussed it. It’s done.”

“There’s something else.”

“There’s nothing else.”

“Look, Sherlock, you’re good at hiding things from people,” John pauses, pursing his lips while Sherlock gives him a smile of smug satisfaction, “but not from me.”

Sherlock’s face quickly morphs into one of indignation.

“Don’t give me that look. Something is bothering you. It’s obvious. Now what is it?”

Sherlock studies John closely. He doesn’t know why he hesitates, but still does. He can trust John with his concerns. He trusts him with his life, for god sake, but this is different. This is a feeling not backed by logic. Ordinarily, he would tell no one and dismiss it as an absurd lack of concentration. Sentiment. But John. He will understand and still Sherlock watches him, unsure. He soon finds himself looking intently at every aspect of John’s expression, getting lost in his eyes. The crinkles around them, the way his brows punctuate every expression, and his mouth… God, his mouth.

Sherlock licks his lips and begins to imagine what it would feel like to touch John’s lips. What must they taste like and how would they feel against his own? Or on his collarbone, his shoulder. Sherlock stutters back, staring at John with wide eyes. He absolutely was **not** doing that and will **not** do it again in the future. He has already gone over this in his mind palace enough times to know he cannot act on these feelings. It is too great a risk.

Brushing the thoughts from his mind, he looks at John again and hopes he did not notice the hungry look in his eyes, but knows he must have. He watches for any trace of reaction on the doctor’s face, but there is none. John opens his mouth to speak and his words are not at all what Sherlock expects.

“We’re in this together, yeah?” he says simply, leaning across the table. He looks at Sherlock so intently that Sherlock tips his head to the side, almost in wonder. “You, Greg, me, we’re working together to pull this off and protect the team. Now it’s just the two of us and I can’t help if I don’t have all the pieces. I **know** something is bothering you and I’m sure it’s to do with the accidents. What is it, Sherlock?”

“The two of us,” Sherlock repeats. His chest and cheeks feel warm as his feelings, so soundly stifled, bubble to the surface again. “Against the world.”

It is a foolish, romantic notion and Sherlock would normally berate anyone for such nonsense, but John is smiling that beautiful smile that shines in his eyes and Sherlock wants him never to stop.

“Yeah,” John replies with not just a little affection in his voice. “Something like that. Can you trust me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. His eyes must be dilating and he cannot stop them from giving him away.

" **Do** you trust me?” John asks slowly, voice rife with hesitation.

“Yes,” he answers without stopping to consider it. He has no need. He trusts John implicitly and he knows the feeling is mutual. There is no reason to delay any longer. There never was. “I have no real evidence of my suspicions.”

“Okay,” John’s tongue darts across his lips and it is all Sherlock can do not to look at them, not to even glance. “What suspicions?”

“I have...an uneasy feeling,” Sherlock pauses and swallows. He should feel like an idiot, citing anything as irrational as sentiment as a basis for suspicion, but it is a feeling he cannot shake. Something is not right in Baltimore.

“There was a man. When I stepped out of the elevator before dinner. He was watching me. I’m sure of it, and he was gone when I looked back.”

A moment of silence follows and Sherlock feels suddenly compelled to convince John he has not lost his mind. He leans forward and grasps the hand that lies idly on the table between them.

“I know how it sounds, John. I don’t put any stock into gut feelings, emotions or sentiment, but something is not right here. We have to be prepared for anything,” Sherlock tells him in a low, serious tone. 

There it is. His intuition laid out on the table with no basis in logic, just a notion that something is off. He expects John to scoff, tell him he is a weak-minded fool and walk away.

But he does not.

“I believe you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks. He cannot believe his ears. Trying to keep the surprise from his face, he concentrates on John’s features. Honesty and curiosity are the primary emotions he sees and they make him love John that much more. Flip.

_Goddammit._

“I trust gut feelings. It’s what helped lead me to you. The team,” he corrects quickly when Sherlock’s eyes meet his and this time they are startled. “This man, what did he look like?”

“My height, blonde, brown eyes and fair skin. He was wearing a black turtleneck and sport coat. I couldn’t see anything else through all the people. He had this look in his eye, like he knew something about me or someone I hold dear. And smirking, but more of a sneer. He’s dangerous, John. I don’t know how, but he is involved in all of this.”

“So we’ll watch for him at the bout and around the hotel. If we see him, we’ll get a hold of him and find out what the hell he’s doing here,” John tells him. Sherlock nods, unable to keep the smile from forming and John follows suit. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just… You’re usually so polite and charming, but now…” Sherlock looks away coyly, but then snaps his gaze back to John and continues in a firm tone because he was absolutely **not** being flirtatious. _Jesus Christ_. “Now you’re quite the opposite.”

“More kick ass and take names? I believe that’s what you Americans say.”

“Yes, something like that,” Sherlock chuckles and, before he knows it, John has joined in his revelry. John continues talking a moment later, taking on a more serious tone. 

“It’s where we’re similar. You see, I haven’t been here long, but I’ve grown quite fond of the ladies. I’ll do whatever I need to protect them. And you.”

Those two words catch Sherlock completely off guard and his gaze locks in on John. They share the most sincere of looks across the table. John’s deep blue eyes sparkle, even in the low light of the restaurant. A scheme by hotel managers to appeal to couples who want a romantic evening away from prying eyes. Even those who do not seek out the experience find themselves caught up in the atmosphere. As he continues to gaze into those amazingly expressive, gorgeous blue eyes, Sherlock decides he rather likes it himself.

Then he realizes his own hand still rests on John’s, warm and soft, and for much longer than is normal for friends. He grins uncharacteristically foolishly, hoping it will distract John while he slowly slides it off. The doctor just chuckles quietly and says nothing. Sherlock chastises himself in his mind for being such an idiot. Is this what love does to him? He clenches his jaw irritably. No. He was never like this with Victor. This is what John does to him.

“Hey,” John’s hand is suddenly on his. He looks at him from under long lashes. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers after a few seconds of thought and John smiles. 

They spend another hour or so in easy conversation before bidding one another good night and going to their rooms. 

***

Back in the living room of his suite, Sherlock hangs his long coat and scarf in the closet by the door. He pulls off his suit coat as he goes to the kitchen, tossing it on the bar that separates the kitchenette from the rest of the room. He removes a small bottle of wine from the fridge and takes a glass from the cabinet. Sherlock likes a good white wine and only if it is colder than what most think is appropriate. This wine is acceptable, he concludes after a sip.

Sherlock toes out of his shoes and pads into the bedroom where his bags still sit on the bed. He should shower after the day of traveling and practice, but it is late enough that he cannot bring himself to do it. His only desires are to change and fall into the covers. However, there is one thing he wants to do more. Sherlock sets the wine glass on a side table and unzips his rather large bag. He slips his violin case from it carefully and runs a hand over its smooth surface. Playing helps him relax, clears his mind of most things, like flights. He places it on the bed and turns his attention to the garment bag next to it. He takes out the suits and hangs them in the wardrobe. They are a bit wrinkled, but it is nothing his morning shower won’t fix. He has another sip of wine while changing into dark blue pajamas and then pulls on his favorite dressing gown of cobalt blue satin. The color actually reminds him of John’s eyes. He quickly shakes his head to free himself of that thought. Jesus, he’s like a lovesick adolescent. 

Sherlock picks up the violin case, the wine glass in his other hand, and goes into the living room. He sets both items down on the coffee table and looks out the large window for a moment before closing the curtains. Finally, he bends down and lifts the beloved violin from its case, plucking up the bow as he does. After a moment of preparation, he begins to play. He closes his eyes reverently and sways ever so slightly. He plays and plays, careful not to be too loud in the quiet hotel. So consumed by his playing is he that Sherlock almost misses the gentle knocks on his door.

His grey eyes pop open and immediately focus on the door to his suite. He stills the bow, but does not move it from where it hovers over the strings. He waits a beat or two as if there were rests in the piece and then hears it again. Two quiet knocks on his door. Sherlock glances at the clock by the flat screen. Midnight.

Sherlock places the instrument and bow back in the case and moves toward the door, but pauses mid-step when there is another soft knock. He rolls his eyes and places his hands on his hips. This has happened before. There’s only one person it could be and Sherlock is beyond ticked off. He stomps the last few steps, releases the deadbolt in one swift movement and jerks the door open.

“Harry, if you’ve flooded your room again, I will not be responsible for my ac...tions,” Sherlock loses the vehemence in his last word as soon as he sees the figure at his door.

“What?” John asks, bewildered. “Has Harry flooded her room?”

“No. No, not this time,” Sherlock fumbles. “She did when we were here last year.”

“She does get up to things, doesn’t she?” John snickers.

“Don’t I know it.”

“I bet Clara was pissed off.”

“Oh, she was, believe me. They didn’t share a room for nine aways after that.”

“Nine? Seems rather arbitrary.”

“One for every year they’ve been together.”

“Oh,” the word sounds like a sigh and John’s eyes are soft. “That’s so sweet.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock’s tone is dismissive and John gives him a look. “After Victor, I determined that sentiment is a defect on the losing side.”

“And yet, you keep winning,” John replies with a cheeky smile, “and you love Molly.”

“Like a sister. It’s different.”

“It’s still sentiment.”

Sherlock looks past John for a moment, feeling himself being pulled down a rabbit hole to a place he would rather not go. He fixes his gaze on John once more, a more critical gaze this time.

“Did you have some reason for coming to my room at this hour?” he asks in a clipped and rude tone he immediately regrets. He blows out a frustrated breath as John’s playful grin fades into startled dejection. Sherlock rushes to put it right. “John…”

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry,” the doctor interrupts, taking a step away from the door. “I apologize for the hour, but I just got a message from Mike.”

Sherlock freezes. Molly’s recovery has gone perfectly by anyone’s measure, but the brotherly and ultimately, irrational part of his mind jumps to frightening conclusions. The logical, and thankfully, larger part of his mind quells the worry before it can be seen on his face. Still, John continues quickly and though he can see it all as clear as day. Damn it, he knows Sherlock too well.

“Everything looks good and she’ll be released tomorrow morning,” he rushes to say. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s body relaxes and he lets out the breath he was holding. “Thank you. Please, come in.”

He stands aside and John walks in hesitantly with a ta. In moments, they are seated on the couch, sipping from water bottles. There is an air of discomfort and awkwardness between them that crushes Sherlock’s heart. He has never felt this way with John in the whole of their association. Even when they met and he attacked him with accusations and suspicion, John was completely at ease. Irritated, yes, but not uncomfortable. Sherlock’s mind works fast for a way to fix this.

“There’s no need to worry about getting her home,” John says suddenly. “Mycroft is going to help her. He’s already arranged it and he’ll help her get settled at home. Since you’re out of town and all. Apparently, he’s taken quite a shine to her.”

“Has he?” Sherlock asks with a lopsided smile. John gives him that cheeky grin and they descend into laughter. Sherlock leans back on the couch, rests his hand on his belly and looks at John. The doctor wears an almost wistful expression. A slow smile creeps onto Sherlock’s face, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes before his lips turn down into a frown. “Mike called you at midnight?”

“What?” John asks and then raises his brows in understanding. “Oh, no, no. He phoned just after I got back to my room, but I didn’t hear it in the shower. Then I fell asleep watching crap telly as soon as my ass hit the sofa. I woke up just a little while ago and saw the message.”

John pauses. Sherlock meets his gaze and then lets his eyes drop down to John’s lips when the tip of his tongue darts out to wet them. Sherlock swallows hard.

“I came to tell you straight away. I thought you’d want to know,” he pauses to look at the coach with laughing eyes, “like I was saying.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says again in a smooth tone. He notices a shiver ripple through John’s body and narrows his eyes. “I do. Thank you, John.”

Before he realizes what he is doing, Sherlock is patting John’s knee lightly. It is warm and welcoming, the denim of his jeans softer than it has any right to be. Sherlock pulls his hand away, even though every instinct in his mind screams to stop and just rest his hand on that knee.

“You’re welcome,” John clears his throat, speaking quietly.

Sherlock tilts his head because the man sitting on the couch next to him is absolutely the most amazing sight he has ever seen. He places his water bottle on the coffee table, drawing John’s attention to the violin and bow.

“That was you playing?” he says incredulously. “You play the violin.”

“Since I was five,” Sherlock replies. “And Molly plays the cello. Our parents had us take lessons together.”

“You really are two of a kind.”

“Oh, no, John,” Sherlock corrects him. “We are very different, trust me.”

A goofy grin appears on John’s face. He glances at his own knee where Sherlock’s had just been and a soft look comes over his features. He turns on the couch, folding one leg in front of his body. One arm rests on the back and he cups his own cheek in his hand, but he says nothing.

Sherlock turns to mirror his position. Draping his left arm across the top of the back, his fingers are close enough for him to touch John’s elbow with his fingertips. A soft brush of affection, of love. Sherlock wiggles his fingers slowly, but does not get close enough to actually touch John. Oh, how he longs to.

“You’re going to visit Molly as soon as we get back?” John’s voice is quiet and gentle. Sherlock gazes at him and they slowly become the only two people on earth. The hotel room falls away. In fact, the whole hotel full of people no longer exists as Sherlock finds and catalogs every hue of blue in John’s eyes. And a fleck of dark brown in only the left one.

“You’re very lucky to have each other,” John says and Sherlock realizes he must have answered yes. He zooms out a bit to see a somewhat distant and sad expression on John’s face. “It’s a precious thing.”

“Do you have a friend like that?” Sherlock asks and then wonders if it was wise when John looks at him with shining eyes.

“I did once,” John replies in a choked voice. He clears his throat and seems to collect himself. Watching the struggle to reign in his emotions, Sherlock desperately wants to take his hand or even take the man into his arms. His body aches with the urge to comfort John in any way he is capable.

“Bill Murray,” John says louder, sounding more like himself. “Met him when I was thirteen. He was fifteen and had just moved next door. He was an only child like me and really into tech repair. He’d fix anything, tear anything apart to see how it works and always got it back together again, usually in better condition than it started. He appreciated my capacity to learn quickly and extrapolate. It helped him with his work.”

He pauses a moment and mirrors Sherlock’s warm smile. Maybe it is the wine he drank earlier, although he did not have nearly enough for this, but Sherlock feels pliant and cozy. The soft oranges and yellows from the lamp lights in the room make the deep red of John’s shirt look even softer. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth curl further and he allows his middle finger to just barely graze John’s elbow.

“Right about the time I went to uni, he graduated and joined the army. We were in contact all through med school and basic training. We found weekends to meet up here and there. I could tell him anything,” John smiles wistfully, but it fades from his face and Sherlock finds himself dreading John’s next words. “I thought about joining up once I was done with school. Figured they’d be happy to have a ‘brilliant’ army doctor.”

Sherlock studies John’s face carefully, gleaning it all from his features. He knows what happened next, but there is no way in hell he is going to let on. He straightens his middle finger again and touches John’s elbow gently. Instead of pulling away again after contact, Sherlock lets his fingertip remain against John’s arm, wishing the doctor had worn a short-sleeved shirt.

“Did you?” Sherlock asks, not failing to notice John has not moved his elbow. The doctor raises his eyes and looks at him sadly.   
“No, I didn’t. There was more opportunity in civilian life, in England. Bill had shipped out to Afghanistan,” a determined look comes over John’s face and his elbow presses into Sherlock’s fingertip as if he needs to ground himself with the touch. “I thought I could do more, help more people, make more of a difference working in London. Women, children, young and old…”

“I’m sure you did,” Sherlock assures him when he trails off. His index finger joins his middle one, touching John’s elbow gently. “You must have saved countless lives over your career.”

“I couldn’t save the one that mattered most,” John whispers. He turns his head away, casting his eyes at the floor below the flat screen as though he cannot face Sherlock. He can still see the shine of tears in John’s eyes in spite of it. “I’m sorry. That’s a terrible thing to say.”

Sherlock touches with his ring finger now too.

“It’s human,” his voice is quiet and sympathetic. He strokes with his middle finger, trying to comfort the wonderous man before him. John still won’t look at him. “Bill?”

John nods and blinks slowly.

“They were hit on patrol and pinned down for hours,” he sounds distant and still stares straight ahead. He looks as though he can somehow visualize the scene, like he was the lone witness who could do nothing. Sherlock inhales sharply when John’s elbow leans into his touch with all its weight. He can feel John’s pain as acutely as if it is his own. John finally looks at him with watery eyes haunted by sorrow and guilt.

“He got shot,” John says flatly. “In the shoulder. The medics couldn’t get to him for the gunfire and he bled out. Didn’t have a chance. His parents told me. Came to my flat to give me a few of Bill’s things. He’d wanted me to have them.”

As he stares at Sherlock, a tinge of anger sneaks onto his face and his voice has an edge when he speaks.

“Damn it, Sherlock,” John huffs, “if I’d been there... If I had joined up I could have saved him. If I’d just been there. I’ve...I’ve never been able to shake that.”

“What makes you think you could have made it to him?” Sherlock asks. His tone is firm, but empathetic and John gazes back with uncertainty written all over his face. He looks lost and yet, ready to hear what Sherlock has to say, ready to believe. It hits Sherlock all at once that John has never spoken to anyone about this before. He has never been able to put voice to his pain. He has never trusted anyone enough to share it. Sherlock takes a moment to let the weight of that realization wash over him before he speaks.

“You said the gunfire held them down. You would’ve been shot if you tried to get to him. Even if you had been right next to him, you may not have been able to control the bleeding. He may have still bled out.”

Sherlock leans closer. The two gaze at one another with the kind of trust and bond typically earned only after years of friendship.

“You can’t blame yourself, John,” he tells him in a gentle voice. “Bill wouldn’t want that.”

He watches in silence as John’s dark and stormy eyes slowly begin to clear. He may have heard words like Sherlock’s before, possibly from his parents, but he had never dared to believe. He could never find any peace in his heart or mind. So he bottled his feelings and carried the weight of his guilt. John clearly never spoke of it at any time, in any relationship and the fact that he would trust Sherlock with it opens Sherlock’s eyes. He sees for the first time how much their friendship truly means to John.

Sherlock closes his fingers around John’s elbow and fixes him with an earnest gaze. The next words out of his mouth are nearly ‘I love you’ and thank god, he doesn’t say them. Nothing in the world would be more awkward and John would have bolted like a frightened rabbit.

“I have no doubt that Bill treasured your friendship and never had any expectation that you would serve together. He left his things to you as a remembrance of what you shared, not to make you feel guilty or that you’d failed him. You haven’t, John.”

The doctor says nothing. He just looks at Sherlock, unblinking.

“You’re right,” he breathes, a tear slipping from his eye and trickling down his cheek. “I know you’re right. But it’s so hard.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock places his free hand comfortingly on John’s knee. “Bill’s death was a tragedy to be sure. But if you hadn’t been in London for the people you have saved before and after it, **that** would have been a tragedy. And I think Bill would agree.”

There is a long silence. Sherlock is just beginning to think he should have kept his mouth shut when John’s lips turn up at the ends. It is a subtle movement, one he almost did not detect, but it is there nonetheless. John places his hand over Sherlock’s where it still rests on his knee. Sherlock’s stomach flips and his brows bounce up to reach the curls on his forehead. 

“Thanks,” John says, his thumb lightly feathering up and down over Sherlock’s thumb to the back of his hand. “I know that wasn’t easy to say. Certainly not what I thought we’d be talking about when I walked here.”

“I would do anything for you, John,” he replies after a few seconds. John looks at him, that ghost of a smile still on his face. He pulls away the elbow Sherlock has been touching throughout the conversation and extends it until his hand is resting on the coach’s bicep. A shiver surges through Sherlock’s body and he is sure John feels it too because his smile widens slightly.

“So,” John begins as Sherlock feels a burst of lightheadedness when he gives his arm a squeeze and then gestures to the empty water bottle on the coffee table, “any chance I could get another? Or was that wine I saw on the counter?”

***

Two hours later and they are still on the couch, giggling and snorting merrily. Not drunk, as each has only had one glass of wine, but certainly very jovial. Sherlock has a twinkle in his eye as he looks at John because a laughing John Watson is truly a sight to behold. The coach is leaning back on the couch again with his legs stretched out on the coffee table. His head is turned to face John, who still sits sideways with his arm resting on the back of the couch. They are close enough that John’s fingers touch Sherlock’s bicep and his damned stomach flips periodically with the knowledge of it. While Sherlock still finds it frustrating, he knows for an absolute fact that he would love to feel that touch again and again, every day and night. He wishes that touch meant what he wants it to mean.

Goddamn, he is so fucked.

“We turned and skated as fast as we could,” Sherlock laughs, “covered with paint and cotton candy.”

“Oh my god,” John snorts, rocking back and forth. “I can’t believe you and Molly got away with that! Did he ever show up at your house and tell your parents?”

“No,” Sherlock replies, sobering, “but he appeared in the playground after school the next day and extorted us.”

John freezes on the spot, his eyes wide with shock. His jaw drops open and all trace of humor drains away.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs.

Sherlock stares back at him with a grim expression. However, a grin he cannot hide lurks beneath. The corners of his mouth begin turning up and he bites his lip to hold it in. John raises a brow in confusion as Sherlock’s head tilts up and laughter bursts from his mouth. His head falls back on the couch as he laughs and laughs, a sound from deep in his belly and he clutches at his stomach.

“You should see your face,” he struggles to say, his body tilting slightly from side to side with laughter. Realization quickly dawns on John’s face and he shoves at Sherlock’s arm, mumbling something that sounds like prat. He wears a smile of genuine amusement only a moment later and laughs with the coach.

“I can’t believe I fell for that,” he gasps out between two rather undignified snorts. “Bastard.”

He shoves at Sherlock’s arm again, watching fondly as Sherlock tries to reign in his merriment. When he has finally collected himself again, he looks at John with a more serious expression. It does not last as he starts to giggle and then quickly descends into laughter again. John shoves at him a third time, making both laugh even harder.

Suddenly John lunges at him and Sherlock yelps. They topple over on the couch in a mess of limbs and giggles.

“Ass,” John accuses playfully from atop Sherlock’s chest. The coach wriggles beneath his body to no avail. He places his hands on John’s hips and then slides them a few inches up John’s sides. Sherlock’s breath hitches and he blinks once. His nerves are somewhere between disbelief and sheer panic. If they keep this up his body is going to react in a way he cannot easily hide from John. He must end this here and now before he gives away everything.

Sherlock delivers two quick but light pinches to John’s sides, just under his ribs. The doctor yelps and twists fiercely.

“Shit! Stop. Stop!”

John flounders and then jerks hard to one side. Unfortunately, he tips right over the edge of the couch and brings Sherlock with him. His back thuds onto the floor loudly, the taller man thumping down on top of him. 

“Oh,” John groans. His head lays back on the floor and his hands fall to his sides. With the air knocked free from his lungs, he cannot answer Sherlock right away.

“Fuck! Are you all right?” Sherlock straddles his hips and rests on all fours above him, his hands on either side of John’s head. “John. John! Just try to relax, okay? That’s it. Take deep, slow breaths.”

John’s breathing normalizes within a minute and Sherlock should really get off of him. He knows he should. He absolutely cannot take advantage of their close proximity and position, but a war rages in his mind, each side battling for control. 

_Jesus, John smells so good. Stop it. Stop it!_

He had not meant for this to happen and, while part of him wants to stay this way forever, another part tells him he can’t possibly do that and keep his friendship with John intact. 

“I’m fine,” John chokes in a quiet voice. “Just need to catch my breath.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock mutters and makes to move off the doctor, but warm hands on his sides stop him.

“Don’t,” John whispers.

They stare at one another. Sherlock sees both fear and desire in John’s eyes? It is only then that he begins to notice other tells that he should have seen long ago. An elevated heart rate, flush blooming up John’s neck and onto his cheeks, and his pupils have grown tenfold. Sherlock is shocked to the core and his breath hitches again when he sees those gorgeous, perfect eyes with only a sliver of blue left flick down to his own lips. In fact, his whole brain screeches to a halt in stunning realization.

John wants him.

John wants him?

No.

Yes?

“John?”

“Yes?” he breathes.

But Sherlock has no words. He has no idea what to say or do. He knows John is nothing like Victor, but the risk...the pain seems inevitable. Sentiment. He should ignore it, douse out the flame. 

“Sherlock?” John whispers, bringing the man back to himself. John looks worried, his pupils already shrinking. “Are you okay?”

Unacceptable.

Without a word or thought, Sherlock lowers his head. His eyes slip closed and he just brushes his lips against John’s. The slightest touch, light as a feather and completely surreal. Sherlock’s entire body tingles with just that one touch. It starts at their lips and spreads through his chest, down his arms and legs to fingertips and toes. It. Is. Amazing. Glorious. Perfect.

Sherlock feels like he is floating. He lets out a long, smooth sigh and then opens his eyes to find John staring back with an unreadable look on his face. The doctor blows out a quiet breath, his eyes searching Sherlock’s. His body is full to the brim with tension.

“I…” he begins in a hushed tone. “I should go.”

Sherlock bites his lip. It is too much. He lifts himself, putting more space between them and adopting an air of nonchalance that grips his heart and squeezes.

“Of course.”

Minutes later, they stand at the door to Sherlock’s suite. Neither has said a word and Sherlock feels like a complete idiot. Why the hell did he think **that** was a good idea? After all he had told himself about getting hurt, of John not feeling the same way? But why had he said don’t when Sherlock tried to get up? God, he must find some way to salvage this. He cannot bear to lose their friendship. He cannot lose John. It would be like… No, it would be nothing like losing Victor. It would be exponentially worse. A piece of his own heart ripped from his chest, never to return, and what a piss poor job he has done protecting it. 

Sherlock feels numb. He watches John reach for the doorknob and then something in his mind explodes. His hand juts out abruptly and he touches John’s arm.

“John, wait,” he prides himself on the fact that his voice sounds steady.

John turns to face him with an expectant look and Sherlock has a sudden flash of unadulterated panic, but he pushes it aside before he shows. At least, he hopes so.

“I’m sorry,” he says simply. His big brain cannot come up with anything better or more eloquent than the truth. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

_Please let us still be friends. Please don’t turn away._

John’s brows raise and he looks at Sherlock with a hint of surprise on his face.

“Is that what you…” he stops and shakes his head ever so slightly. His brows lower into a thoughtful crease. His features become deadly serious, but soft and understanding as well. “Don’t apologize, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth opens, but no words come out and he ends up staring at John like a lovelorn fool. _Don’t apologize._ What the hell does that mean? Surely not what he wants them to. Why is this man so damn murky in a world that is otherwise, clear as glass? Everything and everyone so obvious and Sherlock likes it that way, but John Watson is an anomaly, an enigma he cannot quite piece together. It is absolutely infuriating and yet, everything Sherlock has ever wanted.

Sherlock stares at John without blinking, unsure of what to say or do. Don’t apologize could simply mean that John takes no offense and does not want to dwell on it. Several internal dialogues rapidly play out in his mind and Sherlock ignores them all to concentrate on a decent response instead. He begins to speak, but is not beyond John’s name before he is being manhandled towards the door. His back thuds against the wall with a curse and John’s body is against his, pinning him there. John’s face hovers in front of Sherlock’s, looking uncertain and a little scared, but heated and full of want. Without a word, he presses his lips against Sherlock’s and Sherlock’s mind goes blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH! Omg, we finally made it! They finally got there. Holy fucking shit, Jane! Why did it have to take so long??
> 
> Mwahahahaha. Evil. PatPrecieux tried to warn you on many occasions. Empress of Evil, she calls me and she is not wrong. When I got to the end, even I was thinking NO! YOU CAN’T STOP THERE! And now you all have to wait a week to see what happens next. Oops. And truly, with me, you just never know. Will one of the ladies knock on the door because one of them has disappeared? Or Mycroft phones with some news? Or Greg suddenly turns up to help with the bout?  
> You just never know.
> 
> Hey, it seems like I just did question time without even realizing and not in the usual format. Bugger.  
> There must be more questions, don't ya think?  
> 1\. Will one of our beloved idiots bring this to a close before it even gets started?  
> 1a. Will Sherlock talk himself out of it?  
> 1b. Will John talk himself out of it?  
> 2\. As I was saying earlier, will they be interrupted?  
> 3\. Who was the guy in the hotel lobby?  
> 4\. Is Sherlock correct in feeling that something is rotten in the state of Baltimore? (I know it's not an actual state, but go with me on this. I love Shakespeare and had to fight with myself for the whole chapter to dance around it and not just blatantly quote the bard. I was a double major and one of those subjects was English.)  
> 5\. Why, Jane? Why do you toy with us so?
> 
> See paragraph 2.  
> I wish you all a good weekend, a Happy Mother’s Day and an excellent upcoming week. I usually say I hope this brought you some solace, and I do, but this time I hope it continues to distract you all week long. Mwahahahaha! 
> 
> Much love and torture, Jane


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All I can say is... Bonus lyrics!  
> Darling, you gotta let me know. Should I stay or should I go?  
> If you say that you are mine, I’ll be here ‘til the end of time, but you gotta let me know.  
> Should I stay or should I go?  
> \-- The Clash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y’all! I hope you all had a great week, even in the state of suspense in which I left you. Haha. But seriously, I hope all of you are well and as good as you can be. 
> 
> So, the story continues. Now we can all see if our intrepid duo is interrupted or if Cakey Jane, evil though she is, surprises you with very exciting and much anticipated intimacy. Only one way to find out! 
> 
> Also, on a purely ridiculous note, I just noticed when I was looking the title that the abbreviation is KFC with an extra letter. Lol. Now I feel the need to come up with other words to replace the real ones, like Keep Your Fried Chicken or KY for Comfort. Bwahaha! That’s a good one, if I do say so myself. Sorry. Sometimes I really am still 15 years old. Like when I chuckle every time I hear the movie title “Pacific Rim”. Heehee. I really am very mature, but I do have that Deadpool side too.)

I’ve been really tryin’, baby. 

Tryin’ to hold back the feeling for so long and if you feel like I feel, baby. 

Then c’mon, oh, c’mon. Let’s get it on.

\--Marvin Gaye, Let's Get It On

Their lips move together, even as their mouths remain closed. Sherlock feels dizzy. He has never felt so good or whole in his life. He finds John’s arms with his hands and holds on gently. John squeezes his shoulders and parts his lips just a crack. Sherlock immediately feels the humidity from his breath and lets out one of his own in a rush, like a moan with no sound. John kisses him with fervor. There are sighs into mouths, and across faces and lips. Though the kiss remains chaste, breathing grows heavier and faster. Motivated by blind desire, Sherlock tightens his grip on John’s arms and takes John’s bottom lip in between his own. He sucks lightly, eliciting a loud moan from John, and he nearly comes in his pants right then and there. Sherlock breaks away quickly, desperate to regain control. He drops his head back against the wall and takes in a shallow breath. John does much the same, leaning his head forward and resting his forehead on Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock swallows hard and then sucks in a harsh breath when he feels John’s gentle, incredibly warm lips on his throat. John is smiling against his skin. He brushes his lips over Sherlock’s Adam’s apple and then straightens his own neck, pulling away from the taller man. Sherlock lifts his head from the wall and looks down at John, into his eyes blown wide with want.

“Christ, Sherlock,” his voice is a hoarse whisper. Both men still breathe heavily, sharing the very air between them. Sherlock finally loosens his grip of John’s arms, releasing one completely to run a hand through his curls. He puffs out a breath and tries to relax. His heart still beats fast.

“Oh, god,” Sherlock exhales, his hand still in his hair. “Oh, shit.”

John’s mouth turns up at the corners and he starts to chuckle. Sherlock furrows his brow and lowers his hand back down, ghosting its way down John’s arm to his hip where it comes to rest.

“Problem?” he asks indignantly. John looks up at him with the most beautiful smile and bites his bottom lip. Sherlock’s stomach flips so significantly that his knees feel weak.

“Sorry, it’s just… I’ve not heard you curse before. I mean, unless you’re angry. It just seems so out of place,” John tells him bashfully. Sherlock smiles his response and they both stand there like grinning idiots. 

“John,” Sherlock says the name reverently. It’s like a prayer, a promise. The man in his arms is the most amazing man he has ever met. Sherlock looks into those blue eyes and is ready to scrap everything - his theories on sentiment and avoiding it all together -  **everything** to see those eyes forever. 

“John, I…” Sherlock bites his lip hard to keep himself from saying it. He cannot say it now. It’s too soon. It’s too much. John will either run or call him a fool.

“Sherlock?”

Maybe he is a fool. Falling so hard and so fast after his disastrous marriage. He has already thrown it all to the wind for John Watson. Sherlock cannot begin to fathom why he still tries to deny it. He is only lying to himself. God, how he wishes Molly was here to give counsel.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is still breathy, but no longer a whisper. “Are you all right? Is this not okay? We can stop, if you want.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide and John must know he does not want to stop by the sheer look of horror on his face, but that is not why Sherlock panics. John cannot know his true feelings. John cannot have the chance to reason through this because his brilliant mind will figure it out in a split-second and god only knows what would happen then. Frankly, Sherlock is surprised he hasn’t figured it out already. Or maybe he has. Maybe he is now. 

_ Shit. Shit.  _

Desperately seeking a distraction, Sherlock lurches forward and crashes their lips together. John gets out a curse before Sherlock’s mouth is over his. They pick up where they left off easily as Sherlock grabs John around the waist and twists their bodies to the side, pushing the doctor up against the wall now. John grunts in surprise, but wraps his arms around the coach nonetheless.

After several minutes, the tip of John’s tongue, which has been tracing Sherlock’s lower lip as John gently sucked, dips tentatively into Sherlock’s mouth and then shoots back out again. Sherlock’s mind officially derails and launches itself off a bridge at high speed. John wants to go further and is seeking permission and it is so sweet Sherlock’s heart may burst. As his brain comes back online, his only thought is a resolute ‘God, yes please!’

His hands creep up John’s back as he deftly slides his tongue into John’s mouth, only enough to touch the tip of John’s tongue. Sherlock takes a few seconds to taste him, just a taste. It is all tea and milk and those delectable little cookies John eats and calls biscuits, even though they look nothing like biscuits. And now, all of this with a hint of wine. 

Sherlock pulls back to look at John and receives a grumble in response. He lets out a quiet laugh that could never be helped after the noise John made and meets his eyes. The doctor looks completely debauched and disheveled and gloriously perfect. His eyes are even darker than before, his mouth open and breathless, lips kiss swollen and beautiful. Sherlock smiles affectionately, but gives him a pointed look at the same time. Their faces are still very close together and John makes no secret of the shiver that runs through his body when Sherlock’s gentle breath drifts over his lips.

“You don’t really want to go, do you,” Sherlock breathes hotly. It is not a question, but John answers anyway.

“No,” he shakes his head.

His voice and expression are so decisive that neither leaves room for doubt. They stare at one another for a split-second and then crush their lips and bodies together, so close that no air, not a crack of light can get in between. And then it is all lips and tongues and teeth, nipping and sucking and stroking. It is hot and messy and absolutely fantastic. Sherlock’s hands clench at the back of John’s shirt, his fists are full of fabric and he pulls the shirt from where it is tucked in John’s trousers without even realizing it. John’s hands are in his hair, tangling in the strands. He slides his mouth along Sherlock’s jawline, mouthing at the skin all the way and then smearing kisses down his neck to the pulse point there. 

“Oh, god,” Sherlock moans when John begins to suck. His head falls back and his mind goes blank. All is John and the two of them and what they are doing, what they  **could** be doing. It snaps his head up and pulls at John’s shirt hard enough to rip. “John. John!”

The doctor stops immediately and looks at Sherlock in worried question. Their bodies are still pressed together tightly, but John releases his curls and drops his hands to Sherlock’s biceps.

“Sherlock?” he asks breathlessly, his voice rife with concern. “Are you okay? Is this...okay?”

“John,” Sherlock begins in a serious tone, but his lips are soon quirking upward and John cannot help but mirror it, “would you mind accompanying me to the bedroom?”

“Not at all,” John answers with a short, relieved laugh.

***

Sherlock drops flat on his back onto the bed. His dressing gown lies on the living room floor, just outside the bedroom door. His pajama shirt came off six paces away from the bed and now he is watching as John drops his own shirt and tee on the floor at the foot of the bed. The doctor climbs on and crawls up Sherlock’s body on all fours. Sherlock licks his lips and watches hungrily as John’s face evens up with his. As he looks into John’s eyes, he takes a moment to wrap his head around the situation. When they embarked on this trip, everything was perfectly normal. Well, as normal as having your best friend live with you can be. His best friend? Can someone you are head over heels in love with be your best friend? 

Sherlock rests his hands on the warm skin of John’s sides, his pinkies just touching the waistband of his jeans. He drinks in the sight of this man above him and shivers under the wisp of John’s breath across his lips. John dips down for a gentle kiss. Sherlock keeps his eyes closed when John’s lips kiss the corners of his mouth, his nose, his cheekbones and jawline. When they find Sherlock’s ear, he has lowered himself enough to lie full on Sherlock’s body. They are chest to chest, shoulders to waist of bare skin pressed together and Sherlock gasps loudly, giddy with pleasure. John is not just warm, he is hot. Unbelievably hot in every sense of the word and, my god, where did he learn to do that with his tongue?

“Oh, god, don’t stop. Don’t stop!” Sherlock whines irritably when John pulls away to look at him. “If you ask if this is okay, I cannot be responsible for my actions,” he tells him with an even gaze of impatience.

“All right, all right,” John chuckles his acquiescence. He spreads his legs to drop one on either side of Sherlock’s and straddles his hips. Pushing himself up to sitting, he looks down at the man beneath him. His hands rest on the plains of Sherlock’s chest. The warm, soft palms lying comfortably on his pectorals, the calm desire in John’s eyes - it is like they have done this a hundred times before. Gone are any nerves Sherlock may have had about their first time or of not knowing what John likes. Truthfully, he had not even allowed himself to consider any of these things until the moment John said he did not want to go back to his own room.

He looks up at John with hooded eyes and as he smiles back. God, he is beautiful. His California tan has faded a bit, but his skin is still sunkissed. Sherlock has no idea why John is concerned about his physique. The lines of muscle visible under his skin are well defined and make him want to explore every dip and angle with his mouth. Sherlock’s gaze roves over John’s torso and ends on his peaked nipples. He instantly wants to touch them. So he does.

As he reaches up to press his palms firmly over hardened nipples while John slides his down to rest just above Sherlock’s hips. He begins to stroke and tease and John inhales deeply, tipping his head back and rocking slowly. Within seconds, it is driving Sherlock mad. He sits up suddenly, wrapping his long arms around John and hooking his arms under John’s. With his fingers splayed on John’s back, Sherlock licks a stripe over one nipple and John shudders in his arms. Sherlock smiles against John’s chest and takes the pebbled skin into his mouth, sucking and nibbling, relishing every gasp and whimper. 

He moves to the other pectoral and John is rocking again, a bit faster this time. John’s hands are in his hair, his fingertips feel like fire on Sherlock’s scalp. He leans into the touch, caught up in every sensation. With a wicked smirk, he takes John’s nipple in between his teeth and bites just enough to sting.

“Jesus Christ!” John’s jolts up and he stares down at Sherlock, hands on his shoulders. The buck of his hips hits so hard and fast, the friction has the coach nearly coming in his pants. The thread holding him back suddenly snaps. He scrabbles at John’s button and zipper then spreads the jeans apart at his waist, revealing the prominent erection in John’s underpants and the damp spot at its tip. For god sake, it is more than any man can take.

“Off,” he commands. “Now.”

John scrambles off of Sherlock and both men tear off their trousers. John pauses to look at Sherlock, his jeans around his knees as he toes out of his shoes and struggles to keep his balance.

“Pants too?” he asks hesitantly.

“Yes!” Sherlock insists impatiently. “Pants! Pants!”

Both men continue to strip so furiously that it is only when they are back together on the bed that Sherlock realizes John has removed not just his pants, but every article of clothing. Sherlock’s mouth drops open. He is now face to face with John and his much larger than expected penis.

“Holy fuck!” he exclaims and John immediately loses it. He laughs and laughs, and Sherlock joins him rather than feigning indignance. As it dies down to soft giggles, John strokes his jawline and smiles warmly.

“You said pants too,” his mouth quirks in the most adorable way and he looks like a teen who knows he has been naughty, and likes it.

“Yes, pants,” Sherlock corrects. “Not underpants.”

“Underpa…” John throws his head back in laughter, looking back to Sherlock once he recovers a bit. “That’s right. You don’t call them pants here.”

A little burst of laughter pops out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“No. No, we don’t,” he looks at John’s face, memorizing every detail, squeezing his waist where he holds him. “I love watching you laugh.”

John smiles. 

“Me too.”

He leans forward and kisses Sherlock softly. Sherlock kisses back. They continue for several minutes as the kisses become more and more heated. John’s hands are on Sherlock’s waist, holding him in counterpoint to his hard rocking and thrusting hips. Sherlock scratches his nails down John’s back and grabs his plush ass, pulling his body against his own even harder.

“Oh, god!” John moans loudly, his body jolting uncontrollably. “Oh, fuck, yes!”

Sherlock can feel himself teetering on the edge and all he can think is more, more, more. As though he can read his mind, John thrusts harder and faster. Sherlock matches him for every one, digging his fingers into John’s ass cheeks hard enough to bruise.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sherlock pants, his voice taking on a harsher and more throaty edge with each repetition. He can barely hold himself together, the pleasure tearing through every inch of his body until. “OH GOD! OH GOD! OHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD!”

He spurts into his underpants in waves and John onto his belly. It is hot and wet on Sherlock’s skin and he memorizes it all - every sensation and muttered curse as he and John ride it out and come down again.

“Jawwwwwwn,” Sherlock murmurs, wrapping his arms around John’s back and nuzzling his collar bone. He mouths and licks it affectionately. “God, John, I lo…”

“Christ, Sherlock,” he says in a rush, squirming under the man’s touch, “that was amazing.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he pulls away from John, straightening abruptly. He looks at John with panicked eyes. What the fuck was he about to say? What the hell was he thinking? It would have been the single biggest mistake of his life. He can’t say that after one night together. It is a sure fire way to guarantee post-coital awkwardness. His brow wrinkles as he considers that perhaps this will be a one night stand for John. His face flinches with the pain of it.

“Sherlock,” John studies him with concern, his brow furrowing, “are you all right?”

No, he knows more about John than that. John Watson is not a man who has one night stands. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock smiles. He kisses John’s lips softly when his worried look remains. He rests his forehead against John’s and inhales deeply. His nostrils fill with John’s scent, comingled with sex and sweat. It is positively intoxicating. Sherlock feels lightheaded, but he uses John’s touch to ground himself.

“I can put my pants back on, if you like,” John suggests. “Maybe this was too much.”

Sherlock jerks back to meet his eyes. His brow knitted, donning an appalled expression.

“Absolutely not,” he announces disdainfully. John smiles immediately, squinting his eyes closed for a few seconds in silent laughter.

“You do know which kind of pants I mean, yeah?” he jokes.

“Of course I do!” Sherlock replies indignantly and then adds with a cheeky grin. “Now.”

John cannot resist a chuckle.

“Well, as long as that’s clear,” he looks at Sherlock fondly and brushes a curl off his forehead. They stay this way for a few long minutes, but not nearly long enough. Forever would not be long enough. They do not speak, but watch one another, periodically stroking with thumbs and fingertips. Sherlock feels warm and safer than he ever has in his life. He could stay here in John’s arms until the end of his days and never get bored. He lets out a long, slow sigh. John echoes it, but then glances between them.

“We’d best get cleaned up, yeah?”

Sherlock wants to say no. He wants to clutch John to his body possessively and keep him by his side as long as he can, but instead he loosens his grip and lets John rise. He kisses Sherlock’s knuckles before letting go. Sherlock watches John’s gorgeous bare ass as he walks to the bathroom. John looks back at him and smiles before closing the door.

Sherlock sighs and flops back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. John was right. That was absolutely amazing. Mind-blowing. Sherlock has never experienced anything like it. He has never felt this way about anyone in his life. Like a puzzle piece he could not find and now it is right in front of him, teasing him by slipping into place every so often. He sighs again, a wide grin spreading over his face. 

The bathroom door opens and John steps out, his body clean. Sherlock sits up and smiles as John walks to the bed. He leans into John’s touch when he cups his cheek.

“The bathroom’s yours,” he tells him. 

Sherlock nods and rises to his feet. His hand skims down John’s arm and their fingers lace together. As he studies John’s shining face, a spark of doubt needles at his mind. His head tilts a fraction and he searches John’s eyes for the answer. John smiles and squeezes his fingers as if he knows Sherlock’s every thought.

“I’ll be right here when you come out,” he assures him.

Sherlock smiles again and nods. Their fingers slip away and separate as he goes to the bathroom. Once inside, he relieves himself and cleans up. He removes his ruined underpants and tosses them in the corner. Leaning over the sink, he turns on the water and splashes it on his face. Sherlock places a hand on either side of the sink and stares at his own face in the mirror. He looks different. His eyes seem brighter and his features lighter. He looks happy. He looks like he’s in love.  _ Shit.  _ He’ll give himself away like this. John will know the minute he sees him. Maybe he knows already, but then why hasn’t he said anything? Or simply run for the hills?  _ Shit. _

Sherlock towels off and goes for the door, but stops with his hand on the knob. He looks to the corner and then down his own body. All of his clothes are outside in the room with John. He looks to the towels and wraps one around his waist. Best to air on the side of modesty. To his surprise, John is standing in the bedroom fully clothed when Sherlock steps out of the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” he asks in shock, his stomach dropping to the floor.

“I’m going back to my room,” he says plainly. “We have a bout tomorrow.”

“What?” Sherlock repeats and it is not until John turns toward the bedroom door that Sherlock snaps out of the trance and walks to him in three long strides. He catches John’s hand with his own and holds him steady.

“Sherlock..”

“Stay, John,” he blurts, not bothering to keep the desperation from his voice. “Please.”

“But, Sherlock..”

“I don’t want you to go, if that’s what you think,” he says in a rush. “I don’t want that.”

“No?” John asks hopefully, biting his lip.

“No,” Sherlock confirms softly. 

John rests his hands on Sherlock’s slim waist and faces him fully. 

“Ok.”

***

Sherlock opens his heavy eyelids at what the clock on the bedside table claims is 7:30. He only squints a moment because the room is fairly dim, having no windows and lit by only a lamp on the same table. His sleep fogged mind tries to determine what woke him when it dawns on him that someone is in the bed with him. Warm arms enclose his waist, one hand resting on his belly. Sherlock turns to look over his shoulder to see John Watson snuggled up against his back, his warmth radiating into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock gazes at his sleeping face fondly, his lips parted and the beginnings of a quiet snore every few breaths. He looks so innocent and young and...absolutely adorable.

Sherlock presses a hand to his chest gently and smiles. He wants to stay just like this and watch John sleep, brush the hair from his forehead and kiss him awake. He wants to spend the whole day in bed with this man, the man who holds his heart. However, a few loud bangs on the door to his suite tell him that there are other matters that need seeing to. 

He looks at John one last time and slips out of his arms. He quickly grabs underpants from a drawer and pulls them on, along with pajama bottoms. The shirt matching his pajamas is on his shoulders once he heads out into the living room, doing up the buttons and closing the bedroom door behind. He does not suppose John will want everyone to know he spent the night with Sherlock. Not that any of the ladies or staff would give a damn, but he and John should really discuss the relationship before making it public knowledge. Sherlock stops a few feet from the suite door, frozen in the act of pulling on his dressing gown. Is this a relationship now? Does John even want that? If not, will they go back to being friends? Can Sherlock do that? Does he want that? God, no. Sherlock wants it all, everything John will give him. He wants to be John’s boyfriend. As ridiculous as the word is, Sherlock would shout it from the rooftops and tell every damn reporter in Detroit that he loves John Watson. So why doesn’t he tell the man himself?

Another series of loud banging has Sherlock tying his dressing gown and finishing his path to the door.

“They’re both gone,” he can hear Harry HardOn’s muffled, but still loud voice. “What the fuck is going on?”

“He has to be in there. Knock again. Here, let me.”

Sherlock opens the door just as Clara Hell on Wheels raises her fist to pound on its surface. Her eyes widen upon coming face to face with the coach and she lowers her hand with a timid smile.

“Good morning, Coach,” she greets with a smirk. “Sleep well?”

“Until a group of noisy juveniles started beating down my door,” he quips. “What’s going on?”

He looks out into the hall and sees Sally Trixie Belt’em, Anthea Witch Hazel, Janine Ginger Smacks and Bloody Mary are with them. Harry pushes into his line of vision and declares loudly. 

“We can’t find Ph.D. Either he sleeps like a fucking rock or he’s not in his room.”

“Is one of you in need of medical attention?” he raises a brow, already knowing the answer.

“No,” Harry answers simply with no intention of offering more.

“We’ve been going to breakfast together on aways,” Clara explains, rolling her eyes at Harry. “It just sorta happened our first time out and we kind of made a thing of it.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums. “Perhaps he went for an early swim with The Woman.”

“Not with what she wears in a pool,” Sally snorts.

“I’m sure John wouldn’t mind. He is a doctor, after all.”

“Did you even check the gym or anything?” Mary asks Harry, who shakes her head. “Well, Jesus, HardOn. He could be anywhere, but you panic and run straight to Coach?”

“I wasn’t panicking,” Harry defends. “I just thought he might know where to find him.”

She turns to Sherlock abruptly.

“Did he tell you if he was going anywhere this morning?”

“He’s probably down there already, hiding the chocolate frosteds before you can take them all,” Anthea says quietly, looking up from her phone with a grin.

“She has a point there,” Janine adds with a playful look and a laugh in her tone. “Y’do fight over them.”

“Come on,” Mary jerks her head in the direction of the elevator. “Let’s go. I want a blueberry muffin and our very delicious doctor might beat me to it.”

“Okay, but we have to find him if he’s not there,” Harry tells her.

“Jesus, HardOn! Why are you so hot on finding him?” Mary demands, getting up into her personal space.

“I’ll tell you why,” she pushes in, nose to nose with the taller woman. “We haven’t lost a single away since Ph.D. started eating breakfast with us. We. Can’t. Break. The Streak.”

“All right, all right,” Sherlock pushes them apart. “Just cool it. Go look for John in the pool and gym. I’ll get dressed and join the search.”

Everyone seems satisfied with the plan and the ladies head for the elevator. Harry and Mary continue glaring at each other all the way. Sherlock rolls his eyes as they all disappear and turns back into the suite. He closes the door behind and makes a stop in the kitchenette to start coffee before entering the bedroom. He stops cold just inside to savor the scene.

John has rolled onto the side of the bed Sherlock had been on. The blankets still cover his legs and waist, but his torso is out in the open air. His arms are wrapped around Sherlock’s pillow, his face snuggled down into the cotton pillowcase. He looks peaceful with a small smile on his lips. It is nothing less than adorable and Sherlock’s heart melts. He parts his lips to suck in a gulp of air, feeling as though it has been knocked from his lungs. Sherlock never wants to be without this man again. He wants to wake with him every morning and fall asleep in his arms each night.

Sherlock shrugs out of his dressing gown and tosses it onto the bed. He crawls up behind John, spooning against his back and pulling him into his arms. He presses a kiss to John’s ear and whispers quietly because he has to say this. He has to let it out before his heart explodes right out of his chest.

“I love you, John.”

Sherlock smiles at first, feeling calm and completely happy. A warmth fills his body, relaxing every muscle. Then he freezes as John begins to stir.  _ Oh, shit. _ Did he wake John after all? Did he hear what Sherlock said? Sherlock remains frozen as John turns in his arms and pecks his lips that are parted in horror. John snuggles against him, looking very comfortable indeed. He inhales deeply and opens his eyes as he exhales. Eyes focusing on Sherlock, his smile grows wider as the sleep clears from his gaze.

“Hi,” he says almost shyly. Sherlock cups his warm cheek with one hand and studies his face. John looks happy and...embarrassed. Sherlock’s blood runs cold. What if this was a mistake? What if John grows to regret this? 

“Stop,” John tells him, suddenly very serious and firm. “Stop what you’re doing. I can hear you worrying.”

John reaches down and pulls Sherlock’s hands to their chests. He rubs his thumbs over Sherlock’s knuckles and looks at him earnestly.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. This will never be a mistake to me,” John pauses. “It was wonderful. Perfect.”

Sherlock finds himself blushing and grinning from ear to ear like a fool. He kisses John’s thumbs, warmth starting at his lips and running through his body all the way to his fingers and toes. He loves this. Everything. All of it.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he says, pressing his mouth to John’s softly and moving his lips just so. John obliges and, in a moment, they are smiling at one another contentedly. “Much as I would like to stay this way all day, we need to get up. The ladies are looking for you.”

“What?” John is startled right out of the mood and into doctor mode. “Why? Is one of them hurt?”

“No. Everything’s fine,” Sherlock assures him. “Harry says they have to eat with you to maintain our winning streak.”

“Really?” John laughs. “I didn’t realize she was so superstitious. That explains why she’s been so keen on waking me up for it though.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says, though he had not noticed she was doing it. Has he really become so distracted as to not notice the simplest of things? “Next she will try to make everyone sit in the same arrangement.”

“No,” John looks at him in disbelief. “You’re having me on.”

“I am… I’m what?” Sherlock laughs and places a hand on John’s shoulder. “Is that another Britishism or pure John Watson?”

“Shut up,” John says with a smile. Sherlock laughs again and begins tracing patterns on John’s shoulder with his thumb. Soon his other hand is on the opposite shoulder, tracing the mirror image of the other hand’s work.

“Are there any other odd phrases I should be aware of?” Sherlock asks with a playful glint in his eye. John watches him with an amused expression on his face.

“Well, there’s pavement instead of sidewalk,” he plays along, puckering his lips and looking toward the ceiling in mock consideration. “Bobbie in place of police, lift rather than elevator.”

“Oh, I’ve heard you use that one,” Sherlock says in an excited tone.

“I’m sure you have,” John does his best to look stern, but still cannot stop a grin when Sherlock starts nodding with an exaggerated look of agreement on his face.

“Stop it, you tosser,” John snorts and lightly shoves Sherlock away. This only serves as impetus for Sherlock to fold his arm around the doctor and pull him closer.

“Oh, tosser. I haven’t heard that one yet. You have to explain what that means,” he nips at John’s jaw. John squirms, but cannot free himself from the other man’s grasp. Not that he is really trying.

“You have a brilliant mind. Surely you can figure it out,” John grins, wrapping his own arms around Sherlock and hugging him close. He kisses at a cheekbone and growls. It is a deep rumble that lights a fire in Sherlock’s belly. He flexes his fingers on John’s bare back and gently digs his fingertips into the skin before laying them flat. He wants John Watson. More than he has wanted anyone or anything in his life.

“I’m going to snog you within an inch of your life,” John says in a low, menacing voice that is more of a promise than a threat. But what does it mean?

Sherlock is just parting his lips to ask when John swoops in. He pushes Sherlock onto his back and lies astride him, kissing his lips hard. Then it is like a dam breaking, the water rushing through and flooding all in its path. There is kissing, nipping, mouthing, licking, biting, exploring and enjoying. Sherlock works his way along John’s jawline and down his neck. He groans in response, clutching at the back of Sherlock’s neck and arching his own spine. John is delicious. His skin is so soft with only a trace of rough stubble for not having shaved yet. The taste of his skin and salt of his sweat is pure delight.

The truth of his desire to spend his life with John consumes his mind and he pushes it away fitfully. He cannot think about it now. He can’t think about anything now and deposits it in a filing cabinet in John’s wing for further study. Another door opens in a rush and unwelcome memories of his life with Victor flood his mind with the many reasons he gave up sentiment. Leaving the filing cabinet, he desperately turns to the door and tries to push Victor back. When he succeeds at last, his back is against the door and he slides down to sit in front of it with his arms folded over his knees and his face buried in them.

“Sherlock?”

Hearing his own name and the concern in John’s voice, Sherlock opens his eyes and pulls away from John to look at him. His blue eyes are full of worry once again. Sherlock must have shut down. He strokes his hands up and down John’s biceps in a comforting motion, wishing to ward away the look on his face.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

He runs his hands up and down once more and shakes his head. He cannot talk about this now. He has to work through it on his own in the mind palace before it will make any sense to anyone. And he needs an outside observer who knows his feelings and mind. Sherlock needs to talk to Molly Hooper.

“I’m fine. I just…” he looks away, his mind struggling to find some sort of diversion. He has found it in a moment and his lips quirk up. “What was it you said? Snogging? What the hell is that?”

John is hesitant at first, unwilling to let Sherlock change the subject without explaining himself. It is a battle he loses and soon the two men are laughing in each other’s arms.

“Snogging, right,” John is saying. “It’s what we did last night. The kissing and touching.”

“The touching?” Sherlock asks in a dangerous tone. John shifts in his arms with a groan.

“Your voice should be illegal. You can do things with it that no man should be capable of.”

“You did say the touching,” he says in that voice again and feels John shiver.

“Not that touching,” the doctor answers in a husky tone, trying to collect himself. “The kissing and...like we did just now.”

“Oh, making out. Why didn’t you just say so?”

John stares for a moment with a grin frozen on his face. He hoots a laugh and throws his head back.

“Making out!”

Sherlock watches him laugh, knowing he deserves it. Still, he tries to look annoyed, but it is no use. John looks absolutely glorious when he laughs, especially this kind. A deep belly laugh that shakes his whole body.

“Oh my god. That is the most ridiculous…” he dissolved into laughter again. Sherlock puts his hands on his hips, even from his position on the bed and looks up at John. He raises a brow and gives John a look he usually reserves for Harry HardOn’s shenanigans.

“Come now, John,” he begins and John starts to quell his laughter behind a mischievous smirk. “You lived in California for how long and with hockey players, no less. How have you not picked up on the term ‘making out’?”

“Never had the opportunity to learn, I suppose.”

“What were you some sort of monk?” Sherlock quips. John sobers in a split second. He fixes the man with angry eyes that nearly disguise the hurt and Sherlock immediately regrets his careless words.

“I told you I wasn’t interested in a relationship,” he says defensively. 

His voice is tinged with pain and, for once, Sherlock can read John as easily as words on paper. More and more reveals itself as he looks at the doctor and Sherlock cannot stop himself. Being able to actually deduce John is overwhelming and so tempting. Energy rushes through his veins as he takes everything in and he can see it. There is something there. Something John is not telling him, that he does not want him to know and Sherlock has never been able to back away from anything so deliberately hidden from him. So he makes the fateful choice to chase the mystery and push John toward a confession.

“Because something happened,” he begins. “Something in London.”

“Stop it, Sherlock.”

The clues are coming in readily like apples falling from a tree, tempting Sherlock with their juicy details. He cannot resist the puzzle that is falling into place as he watches John’s expression change in ways no one else would see. His own grey eyes sparkle as he deduces more and more.

“A woman.”

“Stop.”

“She hurt you.”

“Sherlock.”

“A baby?”

“STOP IT!” John shouts into the quiet room, bringing all things to a halt. 

Sherlock looks at him in shock and then his face falls as realization kicks in. John couldn’t hide it because of the pain at its memory. It overwhelmed him as much as the ability to deduce did Sherlock and he took advantage of that, knowing that he should not. He is a complete and utter asshole.

John is off of his body and the bed in a flash. Sherlock sits up and looks at him with pleading eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, to apologize, but no words come. John gazes at Sherlock for a moment, pain and profound hurt in his eyes. Sherlock’s heart breaks in two and bleeds in his chest, causing an ache he cannot bear.

“I thought you didn’t deduce the team,” John says quietly, anger filling every crack in his voice.

“John, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Sherlock swivels his body so he can face John again. His legs hang over the side of the bed, his feet on the floor. One of his big toes just grazes John’s and the man steps back as if burned. The pain in Sherlock’s chest strengthens and he feels like he cannot breathe.

“Stop,” John snaps. “Just shut up.”

John shifts his weight and crosses his arms over his chest. He still looks furious, but also hesitant and regretful. Sherlock tilts his head in confusion, having no idea what to expect as John looks away and shakes his head. He puffs out an angry breath and looks back to Sherlock.

“You...you’ve told me so much and shared your life with me, and I…” he inhales deeply as if centering himself and looks at Sherlock with a meaningful gaze. “It’s not fair for me to…”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” Sherlock rushes to say, wishing he could reach out and touch John, just touch him and make this all go away, but John is too far away and has no interest in closing the gap.

“I told you I’ve not been close to marriage. I’ve never even considered it. I’ve never been in love like that,” John interrupts. His voice is still angry, but also sad now. This is part of his life he would prefer to forget. God, Sherlock is a stupid, stupid man.

“She didn’t… She wanted more of a commitment than I could give,” John drops his hands to his sides in defeat. “So she lied. She said she was pregnant.”

Sherlock is an ass.

“John, don’t,” he raises a hand to him, palm out in the universal signal for stop.

“Why not?” John is angry now, only angry. The hurt is but a memory and his hands are clenched at his sides. His face twists in a sneer. “It’s what you want to know, isn’t it? What you deduced?”

“No.”

“I still wouldn’t marry her.”

“John.”

“It wouldn’t have been fair to her or the baby, but she said I was just being selfish.”

“I’m sorry.”

Miraculously, John is silenced by those two words. He looks at Sherlock with hard eyes, his hands still clenching. And then all of the fury drains from his body. Right down his legs and out through his feet. It pools around him like blood on the floor.

John blinks his eyes and seems to sag. He is vulnerable and full of regret. Sherlock presses his lips together in a tight line and scolds himself silently. John had wanted to tell him this in his own time, when he was comfortable with Sherlock knowing and that time is not now, not today. Sherlock curses himself for being so careless and infantile, never once considering John’s feelings and only thinking of the mystery.

“Me too,” John mutters.

A moment passes in silence and then another until John finally sighs and begins collecting his clothing. A pang of fear bursts in Sherlock’s chest. He has ruined it. He loves John with all his heart and he has ruined it in the span of one night. He had everything and it has slipped right through his fingers like water in a sieve. 

“John,” he croaks quietly, trying to find his voice. The doctor does not stop even to look at him.

“Best get to my room for a clean up and changes of clothes before Harry tears down the hotel looking for me,” he feigns levity.

With that, he closes himself up in the bathroom. Sherlock is gutted. He does not know what to do or say. He has no idea how to fix this or if it even can be, but he must try. He has to. John is his life, wholly and completely, for better or worse, and doesn’t even know it.

Sherlock rises, pulls on his dressing gown and leaves the room. He is in the kitchenette pouring coffee on auto-pilot, his mind spinning. What can he say to John? What should he say and what can he do? Taking a sip of the scalding liquid and trying desperately to think, a favorite song comes out of the shadows of his mind palace as if to taunt him.

_ I’ve grown accustomed to his face. He almost makes the day begin.  _

_ I’ve grown accustomed to the tune he whistles night and noon.  _

_ His smiles, his frowns, his ups, his downs are second nature to me now.  _

_ Like breathing out and breathing in. I was serenely independent and content before we met.  _

_ Surely I could always be that way again, and yet…  _

_ I’ve grown accustomed to his look, accustomed to his voice, accustomed to his face.  _

John interrupts the tune when he comes bustling into the room and stops suddenly. He watches Sherlock for a moment with wide eyes as though he has been caught trying to escape.

“Coffee?” Sherlock offers and nearly face palms at the idiocy of it.

“Uh, thanks, no,” John darts across the room to the door. “Best be off to breakfast.”

And he is gone.

Sherlock can only stare at the closed door, the last trace of hope fading away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KYFC can stand for something else?? How about Oh My Fucking God, Jane?!?! WTF are you doing?? 
> 
> Yes, I reward your patience with adorable togetherness, cute joking and hot sex only to crush your hopes. Why can’t Sherlock leave well enough alone? Curiosity kills the cat and this man wants to know everything he can about John Watson. Poor man stumbled right into it and now there’s no turning back. So what’s gonna happen now, Jane? How will you fix this? You’d better fix this! Which leads us right into...
> 
> QUESTION TIME!!
> 
> 1) What kind of hair-brained scheme is Sherlock going to come up for this one?  
> 2) Is John's exit as final as it feels?  
> 3) Will this distract them both from the bout and the mystery?  
> 4) Will there be another attempt to sabotage Rock City and will they see it in time to save its target?  
> 5) And, mostly importantly, did HardOn beat John to the chocolate frosteds? Lol.
> 
> You’ll have to tune in next week to see if chapter 13 turns out to be or lucky 13.  
> In the meantime, stay safe, everyone. I love you all.  
> Jane
> 
> Omg, I just learned how to put emojis in this! 😂 I won't overuse it, I promise. 😈


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides to go sightseeing and meets someone unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends! I hope you are all having/had a lovely Sunday. I apologize for being late with this chapter. I decided to try out a beta and it is definitely a learning process. I hadn’t anticipated the extra time editing would take, or wanting so many “final” read-throughs. Mind you, I truly believe the chapter is better for it and thank her from the bottom of my heart. However....for whatever reason, I’m more freaked out about putting this chapter out there than any other so far. Haha. Whatever the case with me, I hope you all enjoy it.
> 
> That said, here it is. Chapter 13. The follow-up to John rushing out of Sherlock's hotel room after a hot night, but rude awakening. A friend asked me last night why I don't add more tags that truly reflect the nature of the story. To my credit, I did add slow burn. However, I have neglected little gems like torture, evil, rude (in some cases, fucking rude). So here's the poll: To add or Not to add? What do you all think?
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy the chapter. I do hope it brings you a few moments of solace in these bizarre times.

_ My heart burns with feeling, but whoa my mind, it’s cold and reeling. _

_ Is this love, baby, or is it just confusion? _

_ \--Jimi Hendrix, Love or Confusion _

John stares up at the red roof of the Edgar Allan Poe House and Museum in the late morning sun. It is a fairly small and unassuming home, but he cannot help wondering at what secrets it holds. He has bubbled with anticipation since he read the words “..walking into Poe’s Baltimore home is both disturbing and ethereal” on its website at breakfast. He had invited the skaters along, but they all had other plans already. So, here he is, standing before it alone.

He is about to walk up the small wooden staircase at its entrance when he becomes aware of a presence to his right. He turns quickly and comes face to face with a hesitant Sherlock Holmes, shifting his feet and looking at John with a face full of uncertainty.

“Hi,” John grins and Sherlock looks surprised. “I didn’t see you at breakfast. You did eat?”

“I put together something in my room,” Sherlock answers, his expression shifting. “I often request that the kitchenette be stocked with some of the basics.”

“That is a great idea. I’ll have to remember that,” John nods, making a mental note.

There is a moment of silence while he considers the coach’s demeanor curiously. 

“Are you going in or just passing by?” he gestures to the house.

“Oh, going in,” Sherlock clears his throat. “Poe is a favorite author of mine.”

“Mine too,” John remarks. “Want to go through together? We could go for lunch when we’re done.”

John tilts his head and furrows his brow as he watches Sherlock. The taller man looks utterly flummoxed and John has no idea why.

“Erm…well, I rather thought after this morning…after what I did...and said...” he pauses awkwardly, waving his hand in a rather general way as if hoping it will somehow clarify his meaning. John raises his brows in question and Sherlock sighs in frustration. “I know when I’ve been dismissed.”

“What?” John huffs a startled laugh. “No. That isn’t what I meant at all. Look, I know I left abruptly.”

“Quite,” the coach replies curtly.

“Okay, okay,” John responds, his tone growing defensive, “and I didn’t say much.”

“You would have avoided speaking entirely if it were possible,” Sherlock huffed, aggravation pulsing off of him in waves.

“Okay, Sherlock, I get it. I’m sorry,” John murmured. “I was...disappointed.”

Sherlock gives him a pointed look, but one that cannot hide the hurt in his eyes.

“With myself,” John rushes to say and continues in a decisive tone. “Not with you. I didn’t mean to give the impression that I wanted to disassociate myself from you.”

Sherlock’s face adopts an expression that screams ‘Really, John? Really?’. He lowers his narrowed eyes a moment and then gives John a sardonic smile.

“What impression did you think it would give?” Sherlock’s voice drips with annoyance, his whole body radiating anger. 

They stare at one another, their words hanging between them, like a thick smog that leaves no room to breathe. John is no idiot. He gets what Sherlock is saying, but his past was the last thing he had wanted to talk about, especially after such a fucking spectacular night. Still there was no way around it. John had been angry while telling the story, but it had soon faded, leaving him exposed and frustrated. He had wanted only to leave as fast as he could before Sherlock had a chance to properly judge his actions and throw him out. He hadn’t meant to cast any sort of judgment upon Sherlock or make him feel he was being rejected. Christ, he is such a dick.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, hoping his tone conveys the depth of his feeling. He does not want to lose this friendship. He cannot lose it. He watches Sherlock for any sign of forgiveness and, to his relief, he sees the coach’s grey eyes soften and his annoyance fading.

“I should be the one apologizing, John. I am seldom able to deduce you so fully and when I finally could, I got carried away. It was stupid and an obviously very painful part of your past. I’m sorry,” Sherlock says in a rush, his voice flustered. He bites his lower lip and looks at John with nervous eyes.

“You,” John pauses, his mind processing all Sherlock just said. He takes a step forward with a playful and mischievous smirk, “can’t always deduce me? Like you do everyone else?”

“Haven’t I mentioned it before? I’m quite sure I have. You guard your secrets with great care, John,” Sherlock nods his head; half annoyed, half in awe.

“Yeah, but hiding something from you,” John puffs out a breath.

“Is nothing short of miraculous,” Sherlock ventures when John simply pauses. It sounds pompous, but it is exactly what John is thinking. 

The two gaze at each as the taller man takes a small step closer and looks at John with an open, honest expression. John’s heart skips a beat while Sherlock’s next words give him a heart attack:

“You are the most intriguing man I have ever met.”

John is speechless for a full ten seconds. Any longer than that and Sherlock would have thought he had done something wrong. John takes another step closer to buy himself some time while he searches his mind for a reply worthy of Sherlock’s declaration. It is still so hard to believe this wondrous man would ever be interested in John the way he so clearly is.

“But I’m so...ordinary,” John finally laughs, unable to think of anything more articulate. For all his intelligence, Sherlock completely disarms him.

“No, John,” Sherlock is shaking his head before the words are even out, “you are extraordinary.”

John looks at him with nothing less than adoration and gives him a radiant smile. He believes he knows Sherlock better than most, maybe even more than Victor Trevor had, the wanker, but he wants to know more. He wants to know every detail of this man and his life. Every thought and memory, every feeling, every inch of his body. God, his body. John saw so much of him last night and it wasn’t enough. He longs to explore Sherlock’s body again, worship it with his hands and his mouth.

John bites his lower lip and shakes away those thoughts. This is no time to get distracted by desire, especially when John is this confused. What he feels, what he wants is so much more than the physical. John wants Sherlock’s mind and soul. He wants to know everything, feel everything. He wants to share Sherlock’s life. John can already feel Sherlock with him, even when he is nowhere near, like he is a part of him. John feels him down into his bones. It’s like nothing he has ever felt before and it is breath-taking. 

What he has told Sherlock about his romantic life is true. He has devoted no time to dating during his time in the States. He put little effort into it in the UK, to be honest, but had dated off and on in uni and medical school. He really only felt anything for two or three of them and none of those feelings came close to what he feels for Sherlock. It is… What is it? John is so confused, his head spinning. What does it mean when you don’t just want to spend the night with someone, but every day too? To talk to him and learn about him more than you want to sleep with him? 

John looks at Sherlock and is damned if the coach doesn’t look like he knows every thought in John’s head. Sherlock could probably see it all plain as day as it flickered over his features. John huffs to himself in fond exasperation before making a small bow, befitting of Poe himself.

“Shall we?” John gestures toward the brick house before them. 

“Please,” Sherlock replies with a dazzling smile and his own stately bow. 

With the air between them cleared, they enter the house and pay admission. Soon their guide is leading them through a most fascinating tour. Though it is no longer furnished, it is not difficult to imagine what it looked like when Poe lived in it, between their guide’s descriptions and Sherlock’s additions. Not surprisingly, he knows a good many things the guide does not. To her credit, she smiles each time he begins speaking and waits patiently for him to finish. He is courteous as well, not interrupting her canned stories before jumping in. John appreciates it all until he begins to notice how her eyes stray from Sherlock’s face to glide down his body approvingly. Clearly impressed with more than just his knowledge of Poe, she begins flirting with Sherlock in more and more obvious ways as the tour goes on. 

When they stop to view Poe’s portable writing desk and chair, Sherlock moves closer to marvel at it. After the guide is finished with her speech, the coach begins mumbling about Poe’s writing habits and his works. It is truly fascinating how much Sherlock knows and John is more than happy to listen. He would gladly listen to Sherlock for days on end and never tire of it. The man’s voice caresses John’s very soul. Each sound is rich, smooth dark chocolate coating John’s ears with warmth.

Unfortunately, John does not have time to savor Sherlock’s voice or his words. A few sentences in and he notices their guide slowly moving in on Sherlock. Irritation wells up within him and John immediately has the impulse to touch Sherlock. Stake some sort of claim with a touch that is just intimate enough to say ‘Back off. He’s mine.’. Something that will definitely tell her to get the fuck away from Sherlock.

But he doesn’t. Sherlock is not his.

John just presses his lips together into a thin line and grumbles nearly inaudibly. He has no business being jealous. No place warding others away from Sherlock as though he were his. Sure, they spent the night together, that annoying voice in the back of his mind reminds him. They had sex, but that does not mean they are together. It does not mean Sherlock wants to do it again. They are able to step back into their lives and friendship seamlessly. This little jaunt proves it. There is no awkwardness between them, just some initial misunderstanding and then back to their kind of normal. If John is honest with himself, he has never felt so comfortable with anyone in his life. Not even Bill, and that realization strikes him with the force of a bullet.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice finally breaks through his thoughts.

“What?” John shakes himself back to the here and now, only to see both Sherlock and the guide looking at him curiously. He blinks once or twice, trying to devise from Sherlock’s face what might have been said.

“Are you ready to move on?” he asks him, obviously repeating himself.

“What? Oh, yes, yes. Move along,” John marches on with a vigor he doesn’t feel.

The three continue with what remains of the tour and soon the duo bids the guide farewell. None too soon for John, who notices her pressing a bit of paper into Sherlock’s hand under the guise of a friendly handshake. Her number, no doubt. _Christ._ John huffs and rolls his eyes before he can stop himself. He has largely kept his jealousy to himself. At least, he hopes Sherlock has not picked up on it. He has given no indication, but the git probably noticed the moment the woman began talking.

Sherlock and John step down the small staircase at the front of the house and head for a row of shops and restaurants a few blocks away. They walk in a comfortable silence, each left to his own thoughts. John’s mind wanders to the night before, this morning, the tour, the guide. He had been such a fool to leave Sherlock’s room the way he had. Hurrying from the bedroom and refusing coffee like he was ashamed or angry. Well, truth be told, he was angry about Sherlock’s deductions. He had not wanted him to know about Claire or the supposed baby. But why? John had done nothing wrong. Claire had lied, made up the baby and tried to trap him. He has nothing to be ashamed of, right?

Wrong. John was wrong. He was always wrong in a relationship. He kept himself closed off and his partner at arm’s length every time. Never letting anyone in and never actually giving himself fully to another person. Relationships can only last so long when one half isn’t all in. Claire had simply been the most persistent, but it had not worked either. She could not crack his shell. No one ever had and that was ultimately what John did not want Sherlock to know. If Sherlock saw that there was no hope of John ever loving him, if he saw that John was incapable of it, he would go. That is the truth of it. John really should not try to hide it, even in the interest of prolonging a relationship with Sherlock. It is dishonest and despicable. No better than the lies Claire tried to use to keep John. He will not be that person.

John shakes his head, trying to clear it. Lunch was meant to be a pleasant respite with a friend when he had originally suggested it. There would be plenty of time later, after the bout when John is trying to sleep in his own hotel room to think about his stunted emotions. John huffs. Not emotions plural, just one. John has absolutely no problem getting angry or feeling jovial, sarcasm, friendship - all within easy reach, but love. He loved his parents, of course. Everyone does. He had loved Bill, but not that way. 

_Bill._

Could he have saved him? Would it have made any difference or is Sherlock right? Would he be dead too?

John blinks and pushes away the thoughts more forcefully this time. Now is not the time for nightmarish questions that will drive his mind into darkness. If John is going to think about Bill at all and how he fits into who John is today, he has to remain objective. If John had to guess, he would say losing Bill contributed, but he was already doing it before Bill. In fact, Bill seemed to have been the only exception and now Sherlock is too.

_Sherlock._

He seems to be the exception to every rule, and he seems to encourage change in John with every passing day. Today’s is more obvious than any John has noticed to date. He simply does not get jealous as a rule. He probably hadn’t cared enough about any partner in the past to get jealous. Yes, he expects loyalty when he and a lover agree to be exclusive, which he and Sherlock have not done. John left Sherlock’s room before they had a chance to even consider it.

_Why?_

Why had he left like that? People say John is brilliant and Sherlock is very much his intellectual equal, if not more so. His ability to strategize and calculate is amazing, and John still wants to learn more about his mind palace. Surely he deduced John’s inability to love as soon as he learned of Claire. John had told him. He told him he didn’t love her, couldn’t love her. Couple that with the stories of his other relationships and Sherlock would know that a relationship with John is the worst mistake he could ever make. John’s breath leaves him in a rush. He simply cannot bear the thought. He wants to **be** with Sherlock. He **needs** to be with him, but...

“Stop it,” the words hit him like a freight train.

John nearly stumbles on the pavement when Sherlock’s deep baritone cuts through his spiraling thoughts. He looks up at his friend, not failing to notice how the wind blows his dark curls into an unruly frame around his face. John narrows his eyes marginally.

“What?” he asks, confusion clear on his face.

“Stop,” Sherlock repeats. “I can **hear** you thinking. Isn’t that what you said to me? Just stop before you come to some erroneous conclusion.”

“Erroneous conclusion?” John repeats incredulously. “I can reason things out just fine, thank you very much.”

“I was not suggesting that you couldn’t,” Sherlock looks at him evenly. He narrows his eyes. “But you do not have all of the data.”

John resists the urge to snap at him in favor of looking away and straight ahead instead. After a few moments of silence, John sighs and looks down at his feet.

“I should have stayed this morning,” he says quietly, still not turning his head to face the taller man. “We should’ve talked and that’s my fault.”

“Well, we could talk now,” Sherlock suggests, the smile evident in his voice and John finally turns to look at him, still expecting to be mocked somehow. Sherlock does look amused, but John should have known better than to think Sherlock would ridicule him. 

John gives him a small nod as Sherlock gestures to a nearby cafe simply called ‘A Taste of India’. What the name lacks, the air drifting from inside makes up for with warm spices and the scent of freshly baked naan. They are soon seated and indulging in some of the best Indian food John has ever tasted. 

Halfway into the meal, John wets his lips and leans forward in his chair. He glances down at his plate and then meets Sherlock’s eyes.

“Uh, we should,” he clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “We should talk.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up. John watches him, trying not to look nervous and probably failing miserably, judging by Sherlock’s expression. There is nothing John would like more than to change the subject and brush this off as he has done so many times in the past. He has run full-steam in the opposite direction, but Sherlock is so different. John is different too and he just doesn’t understand what any of it means. He has been allowed into this man’s life and knows what a gift it is, he treasures it with everything he has. Sherlock makes John feel calm and free, whereas he has felt undeniably trapped with every other person he has dated.

John eyes the incredible man across the table as he elegantly slides a fork from between his plush lips and chews. John wonders at the feeling that blooms in his chest, all warmth and comfort.

Then he blinks and shakes his head a little.

“You said I didn’t have all the data?” John clears his throat, trying to get back on track.

“You didn’t,” Sherlock says simply. John huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh as Sherlock leans in. “You are concerned about your past, about what I have learned of it, especially this morning.”

John swallows. Sherlock does not break eye contact or miss a beat.

“You’ve no reason to fear, John. No reason to hide. That is all behind you and has no bearing on us now,” he explains in a very serious tone. “It will not write our future or cloud my view of you. No relationship is exactly like another.”

If John’s brain was functioning properly, he would point out that **all** of his past relationships have been exactly the same for him. However, his brain has seized because Sherlock used the word relationship. He said it like it is something he wants, like it is already a thing, a real thing. He says it like last night was not a one-off as John had feared. Still with his track record, Sherlock cannot possibly mean that. Maybe he actually hasn’t put everything together yet, in which case it is John’s duty to tell him.

“Sherlock,” he finally says when his mind gets itself together, and it still is not firing on all cylinders, “there’s something you have to know about me.”

“Is there?” he tilts his head. “Please enlighten me.”

“When Claire, her name was Claire. When she told me she was pregnant it was because she wanted me to marry her,” John licks his lips and stares at his water glass like it holds all the answers.

“Yes…” Sherlock prompts him softly.

“I didn’t love her,” John stumbles on, sounding more ridiculous by the minute.

“Right,” an affirmation to continue, not a judgment.

“Sherlock, listen. I…” John stops to wrestle with the panic threatening to burst from his chest. “I didn’t love anyone. I have never loved anyone I’ve been in a relationship with. I can’t guarantee it will be any different if we...if we agreed…”

“To date?” Sherlock ventures. 

“Uh…” John is astounded by his bluntness. His mouth is suddenly dry and he clears his throat again. “Um, yeah, if you’d be interested. Are...are you interested?”

There is a sliver of hope in the words and hangs in the air between them. Sherlock opens his beautiful mouth to respond as the ringtone they both know to be Greg’s sounds. He had insisted on his own specific tone after Sherlock ignored one too many calls, which was not long after the lanky git was hired. John has caught shit on occasion for not forcing him to pick up.

“Damn it,” Sherlock mutters as he produces the offending device. “Greg, hello. Your timing, as always, is impeccable.”

“As long as you’re not having a quickie, I’d say I agree,” Greg laughs. Sherlock closes his eyes in resignation and, as if he can see him, Greg’s chortling ceases. “Oh, shit. You’re not on speaker?”

“No, I’m not on speaker,” Sherlock snaps his eyes open, “but for god sake, Greg.”

“Well, put me on,” Greg ignores his admonishment. “I want to go over the plan for tonight. I assume John is with you.”

“We have already done that,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “What do you think we did last night?”

“I don’t know. What **did** you do last night?” Greg jokes. Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he does not answer. Greg’s voice comes over the line again, his tone suspicious. “Sherlock…”

Of course John hears none of Greg’s side of the conversation and can only guess at what he said to elicit Sherlock’s expression of shock. He is about to whisper an inquiry when the coach lays his mobile on the table.

“You’re on speaker now, Greg. You said you want to review the plan,” Sherlock prompts, impatience clear in his voice.

The remainder of lunch is spent talking through everything they spoke of the night before in the hotel bar. Their former conversation pushed aside in favor of discussing the bout plan with Greg, much to John’s chagrin. As much as he likes the GM and knows hashing out the plan with him is the right thing to do, John wants to know what Sherlock was going to say. Hen cannot get it off his mind. 

As they talk with Greg, John holds on to the hope that he and Sherlock can resume their conversation, but it is all in vain. By the time they are finished, John and Sherlock have just enough time to rush back to the hotel for a change of clothes, to collect the ladies and their gear, and hop the bus for the night’s venue. The ladies are scheduled for an extended warm-up before they take the track and Sherlock insists on keeping a schedule once he has made it. For his part, John tries to stay focused, but cannot get Sherlock’s last two words out of his mind.

_“To date?”_

Had his tone been hopeful, curious, dismayed? John can hear the words exactly, but cannot put an emotion to them. He tries not to talk himself into anything, recalling Sherlock’s assertion that he does not have all the data, but really only succeeds in talking himself out of things. He sighs as he watches warm-ups. It is going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, just the idea that you’ll have all read it when you get to this is a relief. What did you think? Quite a different ending from the last two chapters, eh? Haha. Dear Jane took pity and didn’t leave you in the lurch this time. However, y’all need to brace yourselves. John was right when he said it’s going to be a long night. What? Is that foreshadowing, Jane? Da da DAAAAA! Damn you.
> 
> And now, the moment you've all been waiting for...  
> QUESTION TIME!  
> You know, the first time I did this in my first story I never intended it to become a thing. Seems a little silly to have teasers at the end of every chapter and I'm sure some people find it annoying. Of course, when I think about that my Deadpool side comes out and I just think "Don't care. You don't like it, don't read it. We all do what we like and go about our business." But I digress. I have to say that my little question and answer section has become a great source of amusement. Yes, indeed. Anyway,  
> 1) What was Sherlock going to say??? Is he interested?? Does he want to date John?? Oh god, the mind reels!!  
> 2) A little off topic, bu I'm listening to Beyonce's Dance with Me right now and is it wrong that I'm putting Sherlock and John into the scenario it paints? If you don't know what I mean, watch the video. I dare you not to think of them. The question is, which one do you see dancing?  
> 3) John is very obviously confused, caught between feeling his love for Sherlock and not knowing what the hell it is. IS HE GOING TO FIGURE IT OUT? IN THIS LIFETIME? Because Goddammit, Jane, how much can the heart take?  
> 4) Just what is going to make it a "long night"? Mayhem and disaster? Dancing and sexytimes? Are you all biting your thumbs in excitement? (infamous eyebrow waggle)
> 
> Oh, jeez. I have been a little vicious with those questions, now haven't I? Must be feelin' a little edgy. But...I do not apologize. 😈 Really I'm just in an odd mood this evening. Odd? Now? Go figure. Given that, I believe I'll leave you all with some my favorite DP words:  
> Keep your pants dry, your dreams wet, and remember, hugs not drugs.
> 
> (On a side note, my son asked me what that means. "What does he mean by keep your pants dry, Mom?" He's 10. Do i tell him or keep it to myself? So far, I've just said why would you want your pants to get wet? Lol.)  
> Love, Jane


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rock City v Ravens  
> Hold onto your butts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends! It’s been a whirlwind of a week. My days were all screwed up and everything went so quickly - meetings, cataloging and the lot. Even my daughter (7) has noticed how quickly time goes now. Friday was the last day of school and we are now in talks here because parental units want to see schoolwork and schedule continue while the childrens want them to end. They actually sat down together in a secret conference and wrote out their ”demands”. You say cute, I say eek!
> 
> But enough about that, the bout with the Ravens is finally upon us! Instead of my usual snarky teasing, I know how disappointed you are (Ha!), I wanted to define a few terms again and explain one or two things.
> 
> Pack - the largest group of blockers from both teams skating within ten feet of each other.
> 
> Blocker - a skater who tries to prevent the jammer from skating around the track and scoring points.
> 
> Jammer - the skater who skates around the track and aims to pass all of the blockers on the opposite team. A point is scored for each opposing team blocker the jammer passes. 
> 
> Lead jammer - the jammer who breaks through the pack first (no points are scored on the initial break through. The lead jammer controls the jam and can call it off at any time, unless in the penalty box.
> 
> Not a term here, but when I refer to a triangle formation it is made of of three blockers. One faces the jammer and is the head, or top, of the triangle. The two remaining blockers stand side by side, facing the head of the triangle and facing away from the jammer. The head has a hand one of of each of their shoulders and they each have a hand on her shoulders. This keep the triangle tight and steady. The head shouts commands to the other two blockers because she can best see the jammer.
> 
> I hope that all makes sense. Off we go!

_To tell the truth, I am getting away with murder._

_It isn't possible to never tell the truth, but the reality is I'm getting away with murder._

_\--Papa Roach, Getting Away with Murder_

“Watch out for 32. She hits hard and she has your number,” Sherlock’s eyes are narrow slits when he looks to Harry in the tight huddle they form with Hella, Groot, Smacks and The Woman just outside the track.

“No shit. She’s been hittin’ my ass every jam. I’m working on a bruise bigger than the fucking space needle,” Harry hisses angrily, annoyance and adrenaline rolling off her in waves.

Sherlock stares at her cooly. He runs a few scenarios in his mind palace as she continues to curse in a steady stream, becoming more and more creative as she goes. A second later and his eyes are focused again. 

“What can I do about this fuckstick? It’s like I have target on my back,” Harry complains. “How the fuck do I stop her riding my ass?”

“Can’t really blame her, love,” Clara Hell on Wheels teases with a flirtatious grin and a glance at HardOn’s posterior.

“She always takes turns tightly and comes in on the left,” Sherlock tells her. “Visibly brace yourself for the hit she wants you to expect and then make her miss. Hella and Smacks will pick her up. Groot, work on their blockers so The Woman can get through.” He looks around the circle at the face of each skater, the calm that only a plan can bring in his eyes. Each of their expressions changes in turn to reflect steady certainty where there had been chaos.

“Right. The left,” HardOn furrows her brow as she pictures what her coach has described. “That’ll work.”

“Ready then, ladies?” The Woman asks with a broad grin on her blood red lips.

“You bet your ass,” Hella replies, holding out her hand in the center of their circle. Everyone, including Sherlock, covers her hand and each of theirs in turn.

“For Rock City,” Groot says solemnly.

“And glory,” Smacks adds.

They all raise their hands collectively in a gesture of power, their faces already in triumph as if by the power of Greyskull, they have the power! Their hands drop with the kind of assertiveness held only by a true badass who knows **no one** can fuck with her turf. The Woman twirls her head toward the track dramatically in invitation to the others to join her. They each nod, steel in their eyes and tenacity on their faces as all five women skate onto the track and get into position while Sherlock remains on the sideline. He cannot resist a quick look to John, who is across the track standing in the aisle with spectators all around. He looks inconspicuous enough, but can hear most of what the other team is saying. It is perfectly legal as far as the official rules go, but the two men have to watch carefully that they do not do anything that looks even remotely like signaling. Any cheating results in disqualification and Rock City is still undefeated at this point, which is difficult, but not unheard of.

“Ten seconds!” the timer shouts and all ten women on the track bend their knees and straighten their spines. The whole stadium vibrates with energy, fans for both teams stomping and shouting. The whistle blows as the timer drops her arm from where it was held aloft and the track springs to life.

The Woman plunges her lanky body into the triangle of Ravens blockers nearly slipping between them right off the line, but the skater acting as the head of the trio closes the gap and prevents her escape from the pack. Face to face, they snarl at each other as The Woman gives a good push and then hops to the right on her toe stops, lunging forward and pumping her legs. Not to be undone, the trio moves with her, still in triangle formation. They tighten the iron grip on one another’s shoulders to stay together as they move. The skater closest to the outer side of the track shoves The Woman with her ass in an attempt to knock her out of bounds. The Woman sees it instantly and twirls to keep her skates inside the line, circumnavigating around that ass and cutting to the left, only to meet the fourth blocker in the pack. Hungry to break through, she continues to hop and push at the blockers.

Meanwhile, HardOn and company have formed an unbreakable wall for #32. She shifts this way and that, snapping her teeth as she bites at the air in an intimidating effort. Hella barks orders at HardOn, Smacks and Groot so they stay in her way.

“In! In! Out, out, out!”

“I’m going around!” Groot shouts.

“Go, go, go!” Hella answers and the three maintain the wall while Groot skates away from the pack and all the way around the track. When she rejoins, it is with the other group of women where she slams into one. With a satisfied gleam in her eye, Groot knocks her on her ass and shoves toward a second skater. The Woman takes the opportunity to follow behind Groot and dart around the whole group. The fourth blocker lunges to pick her up and misses, leaving The Woman to glide away free and clear, blowing a kiss as she goes and earning lead jammer. One of the trio lashes out at Groot in frustration, dropping her to her knees and drawing a penalty. She heads for the box as The Woman weaves her way around her own teammates and the opposing team with such grace and skill, earning four more points for Rock City.

Finally, #32 breaks free from her own wall of blockers and skates away furiously. Suddenly unoccupied, Smacks throws a skillful shot at the trio of Ravens readying to block out The Woman and creating enough of a scuffle that The Woman weaves between them all a second time. Groot forms up with Hella and HardOn readying for another attack by 32, who started building speed as soon as she broke away from the pack.

“HardOn, look out!” Smacks shouts just before 32 slams into her as hard as she can. 

The warning was meant to help, but only succeeds in startling HardOn and increasing the effect of the hit. Her eyes wide in terror, HardOn flies right off her skates. It happens in a split-second, but the scene plays out in slow-motion for everyone in the stadium. HardOn hovers in mid-air with a curse on her lips before slamming right into Smacks, normal speed returning as 32 spirals into the mix. They skid out of bounds in a tangle of limbs and loud grunts, Smacks on the bottom and taking the full force of the other two skaters. Her scream echoes through the stadium at impact and she clutches at her calf as soon as they come to a stop.

Whistles blow loudly, three in rapid succession, as Sherlock rushes onto the track. In spite of being closer, somehow John gets there first. He calls for his bag and begins assessing the damage. Sherlock squats next to him.

“Fracture?” he asks in a serious tone. 

“Yes,” John nods. His lips press into a thin line, his brows drawing together in concentration.

“How bad?” Sherlock can’t keep his voice from trembling, his genuine fear for Smacks threatening to surface.

“Not good. It’s near the knee,” John glances up when Trixie sets the medical bag next to them. “Ta.”

Sherlock releases a harsh breath through his nose as he turns to the side and motions for a stretcher. Every skater in the stadium, on and off the track, is down on one knee in solidarity. Smacks is biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. She holds her breath and then inhales sharply as John continues examining her leg while he asks questions. She bites back a cry and squirms, which only seems to increase her pain.

“It hurts here?” John asks with raised brows and she nods.

“John?” Sherlock fixes him with a steel gaze.

“Her ankle may be broken too,” he replies after gently squeezing one last time. “I need an x-ray. Could be sprained, but I’d say broken.”

Two men place a stretcher next to the fallen skater and unbuckle its straps.

“You have an ambulance on standby, yeah?” he asks them.

“Yes, sir,” the one with plugs in his stretched earlobes answers.

“Good. I want to take her straight to the closest ER. If her tibia is broken the way I think it is, she’ll need surgery,” John’s voice is crisp. He is in full-on doctor mode, his orders for the two men clear and concise. 

“Surgery?!” Smacks queries in a hushed voice that sounds like a gasp.

“Don’t worry, Janine,” John’s eyes soften as he turns them toward her. His face relaxes and his body language is open, honest and comforting. “I’ll see you through it every step. You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

She can only nod a pained grimace and then let her mouth fall open in a silent scream as pain racks her body. At John’s advice, she tries to keep her body limp as he and the two men lift her onto the stretcher and strap her in. She still bites off moans with every movement and looks more than a little grateful once secure. John turns to Sherlock while she is being wheeled away. 

“I’ll phone you as soon as I know anything concrete,” he promises.

Sherlock nods, giving John’s arm a tight squeeze as he pushes him off the track and towards the exit. John understands, gives Sherlock a tight smile and jogs after Smacks.

***

The rest of the bout goes without a hitch. Rock City wins by fifteen points. Sherlock receives a call from John just after his celebratory remarks in the locker room. He confirms an oblique fracture of the tibia, just under the knee and a stable fracture of the fibula where it meets the talus. Both require surgery and John will stay at the hospital until Smacks is resting comfortably. Sherlock gives the news to the team once everyone is on the bus for the hotel.

“Fuck me,” HardOn breathes an astonished whisper. “That shoulda been me.”

Hella finds her hand and holds it tightly, a misty look in her eyes as she lays her head on HardOn’s shoulder. The bus is quiet, every skater exhausted, and in a haze of worry and regret. Watching them from his seat at the front, Sherlock straightens his spine and calls out so all can hear.

“Janine is in the best care with John. Concern for her is admirable. It’s what a team is, but we have nothing to fear,” his words float over every skater and he can already see them perking up.

“You best your ass, Coach,” HardOn answers boisterously, Hella raising her head again with a grin. “Ph.D.’s the best of the best. We don’t keep him on just for his body, after all.”

“Not that it isn’t reason enough,” The Woman leers and the bus erupts into laughter.

Sherlock eases back into his seat, listening as the ladies crack jokes and bolster one another. A small smile of pride tugs at his lips. Despite the accidents and obstacles, the ladies are a team above all else. They band together on and off the track like a family. The smile grows as Sherlock’s words from their first bout emerge from a corner of his mind palace; the ladies never cease to amaze him.

Upon their arrival at the hotel, the ladies head up to their rooms to stow their gear and meet back in the bar for a drink or two.

“To Smacks,” Trixie raises a glass. “To the surgeons and steady hands. To a speedy recovery.”

“Hear, hear,” The Woman declares. Every skater echoes her words and they all down a shot. Sherlock taps his empty glass on the table thoughtfully.

“Coach?” Trixie asks in a quiet voice. He turns his gaze on the acting captain and straightens his spine.

“Make sure they’re all in their rooms by midnight. We have to be at the airport at nine tomorrow morning.”

“Will do,” she promises and adds with a wink. “I’ll see to Harry personally.”

Sherlock cannot stop a quiet huff of mirth and he pats her shoulder in thanks as he rises. 

“I’m going to the hospital,” he informs the cheerful team in a loud voice. 

“Tell Smacks we’re thinking of her,” Trixie gives him a nudge and meets his eyes.

“I will,” he assures. He nods at each of them in turn and hastens out of the bar.

Sherlock spends the cab ride telling Greg about the bout and Smacks’ injury. He scrubs a hand through his curls as they discuss it at length, as well as #32’s apparent personal vendetta against HardOn.

“It was no accident, Greg. That woman was on Harry’s case from the moment it started,” he says with certainty. “She was the target. If she had impacted the track with that force, she would have broken more than two bones. Janine was in both the right and wrong place.”

His leg bounces restlessly on the seat, the only outlet for his agitation.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” Greg’s voice is full of shocked disbelief. “Do you think Harry will be targeted again?”

“Yes, definitely,” he replies. “They will not stop until they succeed.”

“But why would someone on the Ravens help James Moriarty?” Greg asks. “Assuming you still think he’s responsible after this.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock ignores the comment, “but I intend to find out.”

“Sherlock, don’t do anything foolish,” Greg cautions. “Where are you?”

“On my way to the hospital,” his response is quiet, but books no argument.

“Good. Yes. Stay with John and stay out of trouble. We’ll figure this out when you get home,” Greg says with a hint of that GM instruction in his tone.

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes at Greg’s big-brother overtones. The call ends just as the cab pulls up to the hospital. Sherlock pays the driver and walks swiftly into the building. He makes a few polite inquiries into John and Janine’s whereabouts, resisting the urge to snap at every person in his way. Taking a quick detour to stop at the hospital coffee shop, he ultimately pushes into the day of surgery waiting room. John is alone, save a couple mumbling in low tones to one another in the corner.

“John,” he says quietly as he approaches the doctor. John looks up and Sherlock offers one of the two coffee cups in his hands. “Just the way you like it.”

“Thanks,” a smile plays at the side of his mouth and he takes the cup.

Sherlock sits next to him and they both sip their coffees. He tries to read John in sideways glances. He looks tired, but not worried or frazzled. Assured of Janine’s condition, Sherlock allows himself to relax further and take a moment to observe John. It is quickly becoming one of his favorite pastimes; watching John. John’s face is all soft lines and dimples. His eyes are the color of the ocean, clear blue like a sunny day with expressive specks of midnight. His cheeks grow a most delightful shade of pink while Sherlock watches him. He finally stops his observations when John clears his throat and sits up straight in his chair. A bit not good, he supposes.

“Janine is in surgery?” he asks in spite of its obvious answer.

“Yep. They’re setting the tibia and repairing the ankle. Should be finished in an hour or so,” John turns his head to face him. “Did we win the match-up?”

“We did,” Sherlock nods, admiring the brilliant smile his answer receives. His stomach does a flip.

“That’s good. The record stands,” John replies. “Janine was fretting on the way here.”

“Harry delivered an ass-kicker of a hit to 32,” Sherlock adds, his eyes sparkling with mirth, “and wasn’t called for it.”

“Janine will like hearing that,” John grins. They both chuckle quietly, an edge of tiredness to the sound. John sighs and looks at Sherlock, leaning his temple against the wall. “It’s going to be at least two or three hours before I’ll be able to see her, depending on how quickly she wakes from anesthesia. You don’t have to stay.”

“You don’t have to stay alone,” Sherlock replies in a quiet tone, not to disturb the couple. John lifts his head to look at him fully. They can both feel exhaustion ebbing and flowing from the other like the tide. 

“You and the ladies are leaving tomorrow morning,” John reminds him.

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock waves him off.

“Sherlock, you have to be there by nine,” John argues, trying to make him see reason.

“I want to stay, John,” Sherlock snaps in an angry and too loud voice. He glances toward the room’s other two occupants and they avert their eyes when he catches them staring. Sherlock shifts his body to look at John and effectively turns his back on them. When he faces him, John appears very unamused to say the least. 

“I want to stay with you,” Sherlock continues in a calmer voice.

John’s face goes all soft and he tilts his head. Though he says nothing at first, he places a gentle hand on Sherlock’s. It is warm and feels like home.

“There’s nothing I’d love more, but it’s already so late and getting the ladies through an airport is like herding cats,” John laughs when Sherlock cracks a smile. “That’s what you Americans call it, yeah?”

“It’ll be fine,” Sherlock protests while nodding in answer to the question. “They aren’t juvenile delinquents.”

“I don’t know,” John responds in mock skepticism. “I’m not so sure about Harry.”

Sherlock bursts out laughing, much to his own surprise. Not missing that fact, John starts in too and they both descend into quiet giggles when the receptionist gives them a stern look.

“It’ll be fine,” Sherlock repeats in a whisper. “Clara will help keep her on track. She’ll follow her anywhere.”

“True enough. They’re rather adorable that way,” John’s eyes twinkle.

“Don’t tell them you said that,” Sherlock chuckles darkly.

“Well, I don’t have a death wish now, do I?” John raises a knowing brow.

The giggles begin anew and only slow when Sherlock realizes John’s hand is still on his. He looks down at it solemnly and then meets John’s eyes again. He sees all the blues of the sea and his mind begins to catalog them all. He sees pure and utter fondness and friendship. He sees his future.

Sherlock turns his hands under John’s and twines their fingers together as he lifts them to his lips, pressing a kiss to John’s knuckles. The doctor lets out a breath and bites his lower lip. Sherlock’s eyes track every movement. He mirrors the action and then slowly, deliberately glides his tongue across his own upper lip, knowing his teasing has John’s full attention. He raises his eyes only after John’s breathless gasp reaches his ears. They stare at one another for a full minute before John clears his throat and breaks the spell. Sherlock lowers their hands, but does not let go.

“I wish you could come back with us,” he mutters.

“If all goes well, we’ll be able to follow in 24 hours. It won’t be long,” John reassures him.

Sherlock gives him a small smile and squeezes his hand. The corners of John’s mouth turn up. Sherlock feels… He feels happy and contented. His only source of disquiet is that John will not be with them on the plane. Janine may need him, but it still feels wrong. He does not want to leave John here.

“It’ll be fine, Sherlock. We’ll be fine,” John tells him and Sherlock looks at him thoughtfully.

“I would like to,” Sherlock murmurs into the space between them.

“What?” John’s brow knits in confusion.

“What we talked about before,” he clarifies. “To date. If you are amenable, that is.”

John’s brows rise to his hairline and his lips stretch into a beautiful grin. God, those lips. Sherlock wants to nibble and lick them until John is boneless, completely undone, taken apart piece by gorgeous piece. He wants to feel them move against his own mouth and his neck and his shoulder. He wants to see them wrapped around his rock hard cock.

Sherlock visibly jumps at the thought, startled by his raw desire for John. He jerks his hand away without meaning to and the doctor’s smile is gone when he looks at him.

“Hey, no, I want that. I want to date,” John says, his brows knitted in concern now. He nearly misses the tiny nod Sherlock gives him. John hesitates for a second before covering Sherlock’s hand with his again. An electric shock shoots up Sherlock’s arm at the touch, though he keeps himself from jumping this time. John is smiling now. A glorious, brilliant smile. “I’d absolutely love it.”

A wide grin instantly spreads across the coach’s face. Given the fact that John said he had never loved anyone he dated in the past, using the word so freely now and in this context makes Sherlock’s heart swell. He should not dare to hope; John truly cannot promise their relationship will be any different. Even so, Sherlock cannot help himself because maybe, just maybe it means John will realize his true feelings for him.

“I’d love that too,” Sherlock whispers as he rests his forehead against John’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. Action-packed (I hope all the derby action was understandable), another injury (the plot thickens), and then a tender moment for our leading men. Awwwww. I know what you’re saying: Jane, this fucking chapter has it all! What is in store for Rock City? (Defeat? Glory?) What is in store for our intrepid duo? (Danger? Romance?) Only time will tell, my friends. Oh, to know the inner workings of The Mind of Jane. ‘Tis a scary place.
> 
> And now, a tender moment for us as a group. As always, I hope this has brought you all some distraction and solace. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading with me, loving these two idiots with me, and sharing all these feelings with me in these uncertain times. I love you all. 
> 
> And now, on a personal note...I want to thank my new, and official, beta MyBreadAndButter for all of her hard work and advice. She has helped make this chapter and the last the best they can be. She stresses my out, but also makes me think about my characters in all new ways and I love it. She is truly my bread and butter. What? You didn't think I'd make a lame joke about that? Do you know me at all? 😂 Yep. Had to throw that in too. You know, I protest the fact that there is no Deadpool emoji. I want a Deadpool emoji. Am I right?
> 
> And now, back to playful and lovable Jane as I proudly present....wait for it....QUESTION TIME!  
> 1) Is Sherlock right to worry about leaving John in Baltimore?  
> 2) Will #32 try try to get Harry again before Rock City leaves town?  
> 3) What about the man in the hotel? Will he continue to follow Rock City or lag behind with John?  
> 4) Will the dating begin when John returns to Detroit? (And how cute would that be??)  
> 5) Will each man's insecurities get in the way or dating and a real relationship?  
> 6) Will John see that the weird feelings he's experiencing are love? For Sherlock???
> 
> Some of these questions and many others will be answered in the next chapter of Knickerbocker's Yolanda the Famous Chicken. Tune into the same bat time, same bat channel.  
> Love, Jane


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly talk about John and the trip to Baltimore.  
> John makes plans to get himself and Janine home again and has a conversation of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends! I’m so sorry to get this one out so late. I didn’t have time to edit yesterday and today has been one of those start, stop and repeat days. In any case, it’s finally here. I hope it finds you all well and safe. 
> 
> Before I get started taunting you all, I want to thank my always wonderful beta, MyBreadAndButter. She is The Best and always ups my game. I have been scared shitless to release the last two chapters, but I'm feeling good about this one. I think I'm finally getting the hang of having someone else's input. Haha. It's been a learning process in many ways and I'm glad MyBAB convinced me to give it a try.
> 
> So, our duo has been separated. Sherlock is back home in Detroit and John is still in Baltimore. Remembering the last chapter’s questions, is Sherlock right to be worried about John? Are he and Janine safe? Like I’ve said before, only one way to find out.

_ He's a cold-hearted snake. Look into his eyes. Uh-oh, he's been telling lies. _

_ \-- Paula Abdul, Cold Hearted _

Sherlock drives to Molly’s condo as soon as the bus drops off Rock City at the stadium. He makes sure all gear and supplies are unloaded and stowed properly, of course. He takes care of a few other things quickly, tosses his own bags in his car and goes straight to his best friend.

Molly answers the door when he knocks and throws her arms around him. Sherlock notices the hop in her step and the color in her cheeks. Being home clearly agrees with her. They part all too quickly and he steps into the foyer. She looks happier and more at ease than at any time in the hospital. 

She turns to face him again once the front door is closed. Without a word, they throw their arms around one another again in a tight embrace that they do not break for a very long time. Sherlock closes his eyes against the moisture pricking at their corners. Seeing her at home, on her feet and healthy hits him like a ton of bricks. He could have lost her so easily. He could have lost the one person who has been with him since the beginning. 

As far back as he can remember, it has always been the two of them. Sherlock and Molly exploring the creek that cut through their backyards and building a treehouse of his own design. They made so many plans in that treehouse, mostly about skating. When the other kids went to summer camp for a week, Sherlock and Molly set up a tent by the creek because they knew camp would separate them at night. They wanted to be in a tent together to share ghost stories, or out in the grass to look at the stars. God, what would he have done without her, then or now?

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he whispers into the hair at the top of her head. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“It’s all right. I’m okay,” Molly rubs his upper back with one hand.

“I should have listened to you,” he sighs with regret.

“Sherlock, no,” she pulls back, hands on his shoulders. “We’ve been over this before.”

“I know. It’s just seeing you here hits me right in the chest,” his eyes sweep over her features.

“I know,” she searches his face and eyes and it fills him with comfort. “I could barely breathe when I first got here. God, it’s so good to be home. It’s so good to see you! Come on. Come through.”

Moments later and they are seated at the kitchen’s breakfast nook with mugs of coffee, laughing and joking as though nothing had happened. But they silently count themselves lucky.

“So how was the bout?” Molly asks. “Are we still undefeated?”

“Yes,” he answers with a grin.

“Yes!” she pumps her fist with glee. “I knew it!”

Sherlock chuckles with her for a minute or two and then sobers. Her smile fades slowly as she studies his face.

“What is it? Did something happen? Is everyone okay?” her voice rises, filling with worry.

“Janine,” he says in a serious tone, “her calf and ankle are broken.”

“Oh, shit,” Molly breathes, her fingers toying with her necklace. “How is she? Is she going to be okay?”

“The surgery went well,” he nods. “John stayed behind with her.”

“Jesus,” Molly shakes her head and then asks with a cringe. “Not quite an accident?”

“Not quite,” he rests his elbows on the table and leans in. She mirrors the position as he continues. “I thought about it over the whole flight. Harry was the real target. Janine ended up in the way at the last minute.”

“Shit, Harry. She’s one of our best blockers. A strong presence on the track and in the box,” Molly’s eyes pierce his, shock and realization evident in them.

“As are you,” Sherlock states.

“Someone’s trying to gut us,” Molly nods thoughtfully, taking a drink from behind her mug.

“Not just someone. James Moriarty,” Sherlock hisses his correction.

“Oh, Sherlock,” her voice is laced with doubt and he knows just what she’s going to say.

“I am  **not** letting my personal opinions cloud my judgement,” he grumbles. “Think, Molly! Who else would do it? Who else would target us? Billy, you, Harry…”

“But murder? I could’ve died without John’s help,” she interrupts. “Would he really go that far?”

She searches his hard eyes and features. There is no doubt in his mind. She lets a long breath out through her nose and her brows furrow as she leans forward a fraction, shifting on her bar stool.

“Sherlock, we’ve been on top of the league for years. Any team could be after us,” she shrugs. “Or some pissed off fan or somebody who lost a ton of money because of us. It could literally be anyone.”

“It’s him, Molly. I know it’s him,” he insists. “I know there isn’t any proof yet. It’s honestly more of a feeling than anything else, but it’s him.”

Molly tips her chin down, the picture of skepticism with her lips pressed in a thin line.

“I know how that sounds,” Sherlock replies peevishly, “but I know it’s him. I just need the proof.”

He runs his hands through his hair, thoroughly mussing it. Molly stifles a giggle in spite of herself and hides a small smile behind the mug at her lips. He always did have that little tell when particularly agitated. Sherlock acts like he does not notice her amusement, but he sees it nonetheless and finally shoots her a knowing look. She tips her mug as if toasting and lets out a quiet chuckle. Sherlock huffs a breath of mirth and watches her take a sip. 

He tilts his head as a door in his mind palace creeks open, catching his attention. It is to a room full of doubt. He sees everything, reads everything. So why can he not see the evidence? It must be there and if he does not find it, another attempt will be made on the team or Molly or John. Frankly, he is surprised the mystery assailant has not made an appearance already. Hiding him at Sherlock’s condo can only work for so long.

Why can’t he just put all the pieces together and fix this? Sherlock blows out a forceful and frustrated breath. If he was a real detective, he would be absolute shit at it. He scrabbles his hands in his hair again and, before he even realizes what he is doing, his thoughts become words.

“Someone has attempted to kill John twice. He will try again and could succeed at any time. John has been staying with me and it’s laughable to think this man doesn’t know. It’s only a matter of time and time is running out, Molly,” he is panting by the time he is finished, having not taken a single breath for the duration.

“Whoa. Slow down, Sherlock,” Molly’s hand is on his shoulder. When he looks at her again, her eyes are full of concern, like John’s in the hospital the night before.

“Oh, shit,” Sherlock blurts. “I left him alone in Baltimore.”

He whips out his phone and dials John. Tapping a foot and chewing on his lip, he listens impatiently to the ring on the line.

_ Pick up pick up. _

“I’m sure he’s all right,” Molly reassures, but there is an edge to her voice Sherlock does not like at all. “The Demons had an away in Sacramento. If it’s them, they’re nowhere near Baltimore.”

“There was still an attempt on us!” he bellows. “Moriarty isn’t doing it himself. Someone is doing it for him and that someone could still be in Baltimore.”

“Sherlock?” John’s voice crackles through the phone. “Why are you shouting at Molly?”

“Thank god, John. Are you all right?” Sherlock ignores his question and focuses on John’s voice, looking for any hint of distress.

“How is he? Is everything okay?” Molly presses quietly, but John must hear her just as easily as Sherlock.

“Everything’s fine,” John answers them both. “What the hell is going on there? Why are you shouting at Molly?”

Filled with relief and longing, Sherlock scrambles for words.

“I wasn’t shouting at Molly exactly. I was just..”  _ Just what?  _ “We were discussing the bout and Janine and it occurred to me that I hadn’t spoken to you in some time. If there is still any danger there…” Sherlock can feel honest to god sweat prickling at his temple. He could lie. He should lie. 

He could tell the truth.

“I...I was worried.”

The line is quiet. Sherlock licks his lips, anticipation and a hint of fear coursing through his veins. Molly has a smile of approval on her face, but did he really do the right thing? Why has John not responded?

Unable to wait a moment longer, Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but not a word comes out.

“I’m fine,” John’s voice is quiet, soft and full of fondness. Sherlock feels a few of the tight bands of tension in his chest loosen. He cannot help but picture the warm smile on John’s lips and the affectionate look in his eyes. “There’s been no hint of trouble here. What about with you? Have you said anything to Harry?”

“No, but I called Mycroft. He has a friend with a certain set of skills who is going to keep an eye on her and Clara.”

“Good,” John hesitates. “You don’t think they should know?”

“Harry can’t keep a secret to save her life,” Sherlock tightens his jaw and glances at Molly. “If you’ll pardon the phrase.”

“And Clara can’t keep a secret from Harry,” John laughed.

“Exactly,” Sherlock nods empathetically. 

“Well, there’s that then. How’s Molly?” John wonders, laughter still evident in his voice.

“Perfect,” Sherlock smiles at her and motions her closer. “I’ll put you on speaker.”

“Hello, Molly?” John’s voice rings out into the spacious room.

“Hi, John. How are you?” Molly asks with a grin on her face that warms Sherlock’s chest. The bands loosen another fraction.

“Good. It’s all good. What about you? Mike saw you home?” the doctor checks.

“Yes, and Mycroft. They’re both wonderful and it’s so good to be home. Mike says you’re the last line of approval for skating again,” tension creeps into her voice, obviously knowing what his answer will be.

“Oh-ho, now wait just a minute,” John laughs. “Let’s not be over-anxious. You’ve only just been released from hospital.”

“I feel fine, John,” she insists with a distinct whine to her irritation.

“Be that as it may,” John cautions, but they can both hear the smile in his voice. “Sherlock? Sherlock, did you know she was going to start on this already? She is relentless.”

Sherlock’s reply is a deep laugh, which Molly joins in on.

“I’m beginning to feel ganged up on,” John jokes. “All right, all right. I’ll take a look at you when I get back. Maybe clear you for practice with limited contact.”

“Limited contact?!” Molly protests.

“Let’s just see how it goes, yeah?” John says. “I’ve cleared my fair share of hockey players and wished I’d waited, so just hang on. I do have your best interest in mind.”

“I know,” Molly sighs when Sherlock mouths the words ‘Listen’ and ‘He does’. “I just want to get back on the track, especially with everything that’s going on.”

“Speaking of, how is Janine?” Sherlock interjects.

“She’s doing great,” John answers cheerfully. “We’ll be on a plane in the morning.”

“The morning?” Sherlock’s brow raises, concern creeping back into his voice.

“Doctors didn’t want her traveling as quickly as tonight and, frankly, I agree. They wouldn’t even allow it tomorrow if I wasn’t going to be with her,” John pauses a moment to speak with someone who must have just entered the room, but he is back on the line in a moment. “I’ve been arranging for help through the airport all afternoon. You wouldn’t believe the entourage we’re going to have.”

“I’ll bet,” Molly pipes up. “Tell Janine we can’t wait to see her.”

“Will do, Molly,” John laughs. “And Sherlock, she loved hearing about Harry’s hit to 32.”

Sherlock and Molly both laugh again.

“Look, I have to sign off. The docs want to see me. Oh,” he says, suddenly remembering. “The Poe house phoned me to say they found your scarf. It wasn’t at the cafe after all. I’ll just pop out and get it before they close.”

“No, John!” Sherlock blurts, already cursing himself internally for the outburst. He tries for casual when he resumes. “You don’t have to. It’s just a scarf. It’s not really worth making the trip.”

“It’s no trouble,” John says.

“No, please, it’s fine,” Sherlock waves his hand, despite John not being able to see him. 

There is a long pause in which Sherlock holds his breath and hopes John does not deduce all the things Sherlock is not saying.  _ It isn’t safe. I don’t want you to go anywhere alone right now. Just come home right the fuck now so I can hold you in my arms and smell your hair and know no one can hurt you because you’re with me. _

“All right. If that’s what you want,” is John’s reply. Sherlock breathes a silent sigh of relief and looks to Molly, who watches him knowingly. “Shit, I really do need to go. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Bye, John,” Molly calls.

“Goodbye, John. I…” Sherlock cuts himself off abruptly, biting his lip to keep the words in. Molly tilts her head and gives him that look. The one she’s given him even since she was ten and started reading him like an open book.

“Bye,” John says again and ends the call.

Sherlock hits end and tosses his phone on the breakfast bar. Pushing the heels of his hands over his eyes, he lets out a long sigh. He can feel Molly’s big brown eyes boring into him, full of understanding and sympathy.

“Sherlock.”

“Don’t,” he pulls his hands from his face.

“Why didn’t you just say it?” she urges him calmly.

“I am not going to say I love you for the first time over the phone. I am going to tell him to his face so I can see his shock and horror firsthand,” Sherlock snaps as he meets her eyes. She looks back at him with deep understanding. She knows him. She has always been his rock. He would not be here without her. He wouldn’t have gotten back into derby without her and he loves his life in Detroit. Absolutely loves it. He loves her. 

“Sorry,” he sounds defeated.

“Don’t apologize,” she replies and Sherlock feels a shudder at the familiar words. “You know you don’t need to. So...why haven’t you told him?” 

“It’s too soon, Molly,” Sherlock sighs, rising from his bar stool and walking aimlessly across the room. “We’ve only just met. It’s been a few months. I can’t just tell him I love him and not expect him to run screaming.”

“You underestimate him,” Molly nods toward his phone, her voice firm.

“No,” Sherlock faces her with a hand on his hip, gesturing with the other. “He has this idea that because he has never loved anyone he’s ever been in a relationship with, he isn’t capable of it.”

“And what do you think?” Molly asks, obviously intrigued and clearly not believing a word of John’s drivel.

“He is definitely capable of love itself. He loved his parents. He loved his best friend, though not romantically, and he lost them all. He largely blames himself for Bill’s death,” Sherlock reasons. “I think he’s afraid to love anyone now, especially romantically. If he has ever had feelings for someone, he has not admitted it to himself.”

“Hm,” Molly hums, “I have to admit, that does sound believable.”

They share a moment of silent conversation. It is something they have done since they were children. They used to joke about being telepathic. Molly’s mom used to laugh and say they were the closest thing to it.

Molly rises from her chair and puts their mugs into the sink. She walks to the living room and Sherlock just follows. They sit on the couch in the warmth of the sun and Molly smiles coyly at him, eyes twinkling.

“So, tell me, he’s been living at your place then?” her voice bubbles with excitement.

Sherlock cocks a brow, knowing her motivation immediately. He would never accuse her of gossip, merely gathering information. She seldom spreads what she finds out, but it doesn’t make it any better. 

“Since you were admitted to the hospital, yes,” he bites his lip and averts his eyes.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Why didn’t you say anything?” Molly cannot contain a sly smile as she hops a bit on the couch. “Every time you visited! Or when  **he** visited.”

“We are trying to keep it secret, Molly,” he holds out his hands palms down, lifting them slightly and pressing them down again as if trying to quiet her loud voice. “He drives to a hotel every night and then steals his way to my condo. It can only last so long and I’m sure Moriarty knows by now. I’ve no idea why he hasn’t made another move on him.”

Sherlock sighs. God, it is all so damn exhausting. He rests his head against the back of the couch.

“Wow,” Molly whispers. “That must be awful. Can you even sleep at night? Are you both on edge every minute?”

“Well, surprisingly, no,” Sherlock answers, truly astonished. In all the time John has occupied his guest room, neither of them has ever been the least bit disquieted. They both seem to take comfort in the other’s presence. For Sherlock, having John in his home is the most natural thing he has ever felt. “It feels like we’ve always done it. It’s rather calming and peaceful, actually.”

Molly grins at the wistful look in his eye. She is the only person he would allow to see it, to see him so unguarded. Until now. She opens her mouth to speak, but stops. She sees it. She must see it. He could never hide anything from her.

“Something’s changed,” she remarks, looking at him thoughtfully. “Something in Baltimore.”

It is not a question. She knows. Sherlock’s eyes pop open again and are now glued to hers, he just can’t look away. He waits, tempted to just tell her, but not sure if he should. God, how he wants to tell her!

“You went to the Poe house together. He said as much,” the pitch of her voice rises. “Did anything else happen?”

“Kinda, yes. We made out in my room,” Sherlock blurts after a slight pause and it feels so good to say it out loud. It is like it actually happened and was not just in his head. He lets out a quiet laugh. “He calls it snogging.”

“Snogging?” she laughs. “That’s hilarious!”

She lets out a hoot that startled Sherlock so much he starts laughing uncontrollably and she joins in. Their faces grow red and Molly slaps her hand on her leg as they laugh so hard they can’t speak. Honestly, the word does not seem worth all this revelry, but it is so freeing and they feel like kids again. And suddenly, he has to tell her more. She is his best friend, his confidant, his one and only, even when he was married. Suddenly, desperately, he wants her to know he has let someone else into his life. “And we...did some other things.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” she gasps. “Did you tap that ass?”

“Jesus, Molly!” he exclaims, his cheeks a deep crimson. “No, I did not tap that ass.”

She laughs heartily and fixes him with mischievous eyes as she settles. 

“But you would, wouldn’t you?” she grins

“Oh god, yes,” his tone brimming with quiet desire.

“Sherlock!” she shrieks in mock horror.

“What? You asked, Molly Hooper. Why on earth would you ask if you didn’t want to know?” Sherlock feels the beginnings of a blush spreading along his neck. He is not at all embarrassed by his desire, just taken aback by how strongly he feels it. 

“Well, I’m definitely not going to ask what you  **did** do,” she giggles and then sighs. “You really should tell him how you feel, Sherlock. About him and his theories on relationships.”

“I can’t, Molls. I just can’t. If I move too fast, he’ll run,” he lets out a breath and looks down at his lap. This sighing over that man is turning him into a mess.

“Will he?” she asks. Sherlock’s head snaps up to look at her. “Maybe he feels it too. Maybe he already knows.”

“Or maybe he’s so used to blocking out his heart that he’ll never be able to love anyone. Maybe he’s right,” Sherlock counters.

“Oh, Sherlock, no. I can’t believe that,” Molly swats his thigh in frustration.

“I don’t want to either, but if he believes it…” he sighs and shakes his head. “I can’t read him like I can everyone else. I don’t know if he’s good at hiding or if my own feelings cloud my mind, but I can rarely see what I want.”

“Clouded by love?” Molly smirks.

“Oh, god,” he rolls his eyes and they descend into giggles again. They spend the remainder of the afternoon right there on the couch, eventually calling for Chinese and sharing stories of John and Mycroft, who Molly, as it turns out, has also developed a certain affection for.

***

John Watson arrives at the Edgar Allan Poe House and Museum just before closing time, figuring he will retrieve the scarf and grab an early dinner at the same cafe he and Sherlock went to the day before. Despite Sherlock’s obvious worry, it is an opportunity John cannot pass up. He intends upon surprising Sherlock with it when he sees him tomorrow. Seeing him with that genuine smile, eyes sparkling like diamonds, and hearing him say; ‘Thank you, John’ in that warm, velvety voice of his is worth a bit of nagging at returning for the scarf. The woman at the welcome desk, the same one who admitted them, gives him the scarf with an ‘I’m so glad we could find it for you’. John thanks her politely and she sees him to the door, locking it behind him.

Stepping down onto the pavement, John sets out to walking in the direction of the cafe. His mind drifts to thoughts of Sherlock and seeing him in person in roughly twenty-two hours, but who’s counting? He wonders what Sherlock is doing at that moment and settles on talking with Molly. He did say he was going to…

John stops his thoughts so abruptly that he nearly stops walking too. What is he doing? This is the sort of thing people do when they are smitten with each other. John has never done this a moment in his life before today. He tries not to think about other people, quite honestly. It usually brings pain and sadness, memories of Bill and his parents. They are bittersweet and leave him feeling drained and despondent.

Though now he has Sherlock and he has thought of him quite a bit recently. Who is he kidding? He’s been thinking of Sherlock all the bloody time. John furrows his brow in consideration, but a pleasant song-like voice pulls him from his ponderings.

“Good evening, Doctor Watson.”

The voice is not familiar, but John recognizes the man it belongs to as soon as he turns around. John bears his teeth in an irritated smile as he huffs out an angry laugh. He faces the man full-on, squaring his shoulders as he approaches John.

“Just my luck I’d run into you,” John hisses at the man.

“You remember me. I’m flattered,” quips James Moriarty as he stops directly in front of John, “but we haven’t been properly introduced.”

“No need,” John replies. “Your reputation precedes you.”

John doesn’t use the word bad, but the implication is clear. Moriarty’s wicked smile does not falter and he offers his hand.

“James Moriarty,” his tone seems friendly, but hints at danger. John just looks at his hand with a curl on his lip, not about to shake it. “Please, call me Jim.”

John looks the man in the eye with annoyance clear on his face. He has no intention of playing this game.

“What do you want?”

“Cutting right to it. I like that,” Moriarty leers, returning his extended hand to his side. “I like a man who’s direct.”

“Then get to the point,” John crosses his arms over his chest, annoyance radiating off of him.

“It’s nothing so sinister as Holmes would have you believe,” he laughs. John has a notion to punch him for just saying Sherlock’s name, but keeps himself in check. “I’d just like to ask you to dinner.”

A bark of laughter escapes John’s throat and his features change to incredulous disdain. 

“You must be joking,” he gestures at Moriarty. “Why the fuck would I go anywhere with you?”

Moriarty chuckles menacingly like he knows something John does not.

“I thought we would discuss your future with the Rock City Rollers,” his lips stretch into a thin smile, “and Sherlock’s too.”

“What does that mean?” John asks, his face growing dark.

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Moriarty mutters, his voice dripping with threat. “Surely you wouldn’t risk Sherlock’s safety over dinner.”

John does not answer. He stares at the man for a long moment, trying to gauge his sincerity. Moriarty narrows his eyes and wags a finger at John.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he scolds with a light laugh. “Don’t doubt me. You of all people should know I’ll do it.”

Now John narrows his eyes, his lips pressed in a thin line.

“Just what are you saying, Jim?” he places special emphasis on the name and smiles wryly, lifting his chin in challenge because wouldn’t it be grand if the cocky son of a bitch admitted it outright? His every word thus far leaves room for interpretation. ‘That’s not what I meant’ or ‘I can see how you might think that, but…’ It is all a game of chess, the pieces carefully played into the perfect positions for Moriarty to hide behind.

“I’m just concerned, John,” he cocks a brow and shrugs. “Two of your skaters are out on IR and those attempts on your life…dreadful business.”

“Right,” John shifts his weight onto his left foot, arms still crossed over his chest. “Those attempts no one else knows about. No one but you and me and Sherlock. Why don’t you just admit it?”

“Admit what, John?” Moriarty’s eyes shine with disturbing eagerness.

They stare each other down with hard eyes. John is absolutely fuming. Moriarty wears an amused smirk.

“Say yes to dinner,” he announces with flourish, raising his brows playfully. “I know a quiet place where we can talk. You do want to talk, don’t you? About Sherlock.”

“Fine,” John snaps. “Dinner.”

“You won’t be disappointed, John,” Moriarty smiles broadly and gestures toward the street. “My car.”

John turns his head to see a sleek, black car parked at a meter. A tall, blonde man with a menacing disposition leans against its passenger door. John looks back at Moriarty with a sarcastic expression.

“Really?” he asks impudently. “Do you pretend he’s a chauffeur or bodyguard? Or just the mindless muscle.”

The man narrows his eyes and grinds his teeth so forcefully it is almost audible.

“This is my associate,” Moriarty replies with a quiet chuckle, “Sebastian Moran.”

“Right. And just what does an ‘associate’ do?” John growls.

“What needs to be done,” Moriarty says simply, glancing toward Moran. “He is my personal assistant and very good at it.”

John directs hard eyes toward Moran. Though he is a good six inches shorter than the man, who is nearly Sherlock’s height, John looks tall as he strides to the car. Moran opens the door and John moves to get in, but hesitates. He hears a minute sigh from the man next to him and glances at Moran, whose face is twisted in fierce anger and annoyance. He is clearly growing tired of the doctor, but says nothing. Moriarty breaks the tension by quickly coming closer and distracting them both. He places a hand on the door and the other on the car, boxing John into the space so he has no choice but to climb in.

“Please, John, let’s start our date,” he says as John disappears into the car. “The timing will work better if we avoid delays. It takes a good 45 minutes to get to the restaurant.”

“What?” John demands. “Where the hell are we going?”

“Just a little place on the other side of town,” Moriarty sits next to him in the back seat of the car. “I know the owner.”

Moran closes the door and seats himself in the passenger side of the front while a third man starts the engine and pulls out of the parking space. The trip is largely without conversation. Moriarty fills the time telling John his favorite things about Baltimore, some of which they pass on the way. He also comments on the Ravens football stadium as they pass and the handful of times he has attended a game.

When they reach their destination, Moriarty pops right out of the car and John follows slowly. The restaurant is small and fairly nondescript. John wonders with distinct apprehension if it is a place of business at all or if Moriarty and his goons have just taken him somewhere he will never be found. 

As he scans the building, taking in every detail, his mobile sounds. Moriarty and Moran both stop instantly to watch him take it from his pocket. Sherlock’s name appears in bright letters across the screen.

“Don’t answer that,” Moriarty says in a warning tone. Moran tightens his right hand into a fist and glares at John. Hesitantly, John pushes the call to voicemail, sets the mobile to silent and pockets it. “Thank you, John. Now we’ll have no interruptions. It would be very rude otherwise.”

John inhales quietly as they walk toward the darkened building, hoping this isn’t the stupidest thing he has ever done in his life. Hoping it’s not the last thing he ever does.

***

Sherlock sinks onto the soft couch in his condo, a steaming cup of coffee nestled between his hands. He thought nothing of it when he left Molly’s condo, but now that he is home he cannot shake how alone he feels. He has always enjoyed the solitude home provides, the opportunity to recharge. Without John it is now just quiet and hollow. One man. All it took was one man to turn his world upside down. He thinks back to his own words to Molly earlier that afternoon.

_ “Shit, Molls, I’ve never fallen this hard for anyone. Not even Victor. I don’t have a clue what to do,” Sherlock had sounded desperate even to his own ears.  _

_ “Hm… Well, I can say this for sure. John won’t break your heart,” Moll’s voice was deadly serious. _

She didn’t say like Victor, but the implication was clear enough. He knew she had not liked Victor from the moment he introduced them. She had still greeted him warmly and been her usual wonderful self, but Sherlock could tell. To her credit, she supported every decision he made and they never spoke about her dislike, and distrust, of Victor.

Her attitude toward John is so completely different. So dramatic that the two are not even in the same universe. Maybe Sherlock should just trust her judgment on this one and stop second-guessing his own. Maybe he should just tell John he loves him. Even though it is way too early in the relationship and only a lunatic would do it. Even though John thinks he cannot love anyone and will probably get as far away from Sherlock as possible to prevent Sherlock from being hurt. That’s the real kicker, isn’t it? He would break it off with Sherlock to spare him the pain of unrequited love. That says something, doesn’t it? Something beyond John being kind. He did not bother with that in his other relationships. At least, Sherlock does not think he did, but John is not cruel, so maybe he did tell the others. Maybe he always does.

Sherlock places his now half-full mug on the coffee table and picks up his phone. He dials John and waits. He needs to hear his voice, with all these thoughts in his head, he just wants to talk to John. Whether he knows it or not, John can always settle them. He doesn’t even try, he just does. He is the balm to a wound Sherlock did not know he had. However juvenile the notion, could there even be a man more made for him than John Watson?

After too many rings, John’s phone goes straight to voicemail and Sherlock blows out a frustrated breath. He ends the call, not wanting to be so pathetic as to leave a message. He is not some lovelorn teenager pining for a boy who does not know he exists.

Sherlock sighs again and tosses the phone aside in favor of the remote. He clicks through the dozens of useless cable channels, resolutely  **not** thinking about John. He finally stops on an episode of MST3K, drops the remote on the couch and leans his head back to look at the ceiling. His palm covers his forehead, his fingers only just touching his curls. Christ, he is an idiot. He grabs the phone and dials John’s number.

***

“Mm. This is delicious. How’s yours?” James Moriarty asks John as he swallows a mouthful of pasta. John nods vaguely in no mood for small talk. He already suffered through enough of it during soup and salad.

There is no one else in the dimly lit room. John does not know what the man is waiting for. Given the circumstances, it will make absolutely no difference if John makes a scene. No, Moriarty is wasting time, but why?

“Look, can we just get on with it?” John demands suddenly. “You wanted to talk and have said nothing all night. What the hell do you want?”

John leans in while asking the question, hoping the bastard will get to the point so he can go back to his hotel room and do whatever he pleases. At the moment, that list begins with watching MST3K and ringing Sherlock.

“I want to make dinner with you a regular occurrence,” Moriarty says smoothly as he also leans in.

“Not a chance,” John meets his eyes and answers just as calmly.

“I want to win the championship this year and every year after,” Moriarty continues, ignoring John’s answer.

“And you’ll do anything to make it happen,” John gives him a false smile born of anger. “I think Rock City will have something to say about that.”

“I want to destroy Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty makes it sound like a delicious treat instead of a harmful threat.

“No,” John’s voice is commanding. All levity aside, it leaves no room for question. Moriarty’s brow twitches up.

“And I want you to help me,” he pauses to let a salacious smile spread across his face. “Beginning with you escorting me home. I want to fuck you five ways from Sunday.”

A puff of laughter pops from John’s mouth without warning, all hints of his previous gravitas brushed away in an instant.

“You’re having me on,” he laughs outright. Moriarty continues to smile sinisterly as he raises his hands to mimic a camera.

“Having you is precisely the idea, John. Hopefully with,” he makes a clicking noise, “pics. Isn’t that what they call them these days? Sounds like something that would bring the mighty coach to his knees, doesn’t it?”

“Honestly?” John leans back in his chair and picks up his wine glass. “No.”

He takes a sip while Moriarty simply waits patiently for him to explain. Buying the time he needs steel himself, John hopes he can pull off the nonchalance he wants.

“You overestimate my role with Rock City,” he says. “I am their doctor. Sherlock and I are colleagues.”

Moriarty raises his brows and John can practically hear him thinking.  _ Really, John? Really? You expect me to believe that shit? _

“And friends,” he amends with a careful look at Moriarty.

“Oh, John,” Moriarty begins, leaning even further over the table. John is glad he sat back in his seat. “You underestimate your role. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have friends. He’s too focused to let anyone in. True, he has coworkers he calls friends, but he doesn’t spend time with them outside of work. You’re special. You’re living with him.”

Moriarty puts particular emphasis on his last four words. John blinks once slowly to convey his annoyance and gives the man a look to match. He places his wine glass back on the table and leans close once again, his voice quiet but razor sharp.

“A situation you created,” he shoots back at the leering figure in front of him with an eerie calm.

He was not expecting Moriarty to even flinch at that, but does see a spark of recognition in his eyes before it is quashed.

“There’s something about you, John,” he continues as though John said nothing. “I do believe he cares for you. And if you won’t cheat on him willingly…”

“We’re not a couple,” John growls before he can finish the sentence.

“Aren’t you?” Moriarty answers wryly. “You aren’t a Greek god, but only by height. You’re really quite fit, John, and being short in stature has its advantages. Especially with someone so tall.”

He licks his upper lip lasciviously and John feels the slightest bit sick, even as his anger rises. He opens his mouth to respond, but Moran enters the room before either of them can say a word. He stands at Moriarty’s left and addresses him in a low voice.

“We should leave now to make your next appointment.”

Moriarty smooths out his shirt and nods at his assistant.

John’s eyes are wide with a revelation before he can think to hide it. That voice! The voice of the man who came looking for him in his office. The same man who tried to kill him in his home. Moran. Moriarty really  **is** behind it, no question about it and now John has his proof. Unfortunately, the man sees it all in John’s eyes before they revert back to shrewd annoyance.

“It’ll have to wait,” Moriarty tells Moran without taking his eyes off John. Moran seems to understand and gives a shallow nod before disappearing back in the shadows. 

Moriarty fixes his gleaming eyes, dangerous eyes on John with the intensity of a mountain cat ready to leap on its prey and tear it limb from limb.

“You are going to resign,” he says bluntly.

“Excuse me,” John’s eyes narrow, chin tilting down.

“Wiggins was good, but you’re better. You’ll see everything. I need you gone and that’s exactly what you’re going to do when you arrive in Detroit tomorrow,” Moriarty’s bored tone has John reeling.

“Fuck off,” John spits at the man sitting calmly at the other side of the table.

“I’ll kill him,” Moriarty shrugs as if it is nothing out of the ordinary.

John stops, halfway to his feet, fully intending to get out of this place and find his way back to the hotel. He stares into the man’s dark eyes and lowers his body again.

“You know I will,” Moriarty presses hard, enunciating every word sharply. “You know who Moran is now. Do you really think Holmes will be as lucky as you were? Do you really want to take the chance?”

Moriarty grins as he watches a whole range of emotions play out on John’s face. John should stop them, should not reveal so much, but he can’t stop them.  _ Sherlock...Sherlock. _

“Suppose I don’t,” he still says defiantly, almost surprising himself. “Suppose I make a stop to the Detroit PD instead and tell them what you’re up to.”

“Try it,” Moriarty smirks around a troubling laugh. “I have no record and I’m well-known, a pillar of the community. You are a relative unknown. You’ve been here a few months. Even Sherlock and the others can’t say they know you well.”

“You’re wrong about that,” John fires back.

“It’s your word against mine, John, and we both know who the police will believe. Not to mention the damage to your own reputation, and Rock City, and…”

“Suppose I just kick you ass right now?” John interrupts in a flat tone, his eyes flaming with rage. There is a sound of movement from behind him and Moriarty looks over John’s shoulder, but shakes his head quickly. Moriarty leans forward, placing his palms down flat on either side of his plate.

“What about Sherrrlock?” he lingers on the name, letting his tongue click loud at its end. “Is it worth risking him? Worth his life?”

John looks at him stone faced, but full of regret. He never should have come here. He never should have listened to Martha or accepted her offer. Sherlock would never have been put in danger and maybe none of it would have escalated this far. If he stays, Moriarty will only ramp it up and more people will be hurt. And Sherlock will be dead. John cannot bear the thought. A world without Sherlock Holmes is not a place he wants to be. Even if he can’t have him in his life, even if he is forced to leave Detroit altogether and can only see Sherlock on telly in post-game interviews. He is only fooling himself that it will affect Sherlock as much as it will John. Sherlock’s life is packed full and John only took up a little piece of it. Nothing like the space in John’s brain that has grown larger and larger with each passing day, each new expression and nuance of tone or behavior safely added so he will never forget. Never forget Sherlock.  _ Sherlock. _

“All right,” John mutters quietly. “I’ll do it.”

***

John sifts through the conversation with Moriarty later on the cab ride back to his hotel. His brain works overtime trying to think of some way to tell Sherlock about it all. Part of the deal, if it could be called that, is to tell Sherlock nothing. John is supposed to come up with some plausible reason for resigning after so short a time and when he is entirely happy in his position. In all honesty, he isn’t really trying. Sherlock won’t believe a word he says no matter how good the excuse John comes up with. He will know John is lying.

John looks out the window and sighs. Light raindrops begin to flit here and there, catching the glass every so often and slowly trickling down its length. The sky is dark, but the city is alive with lights. It had not felt like he and Moriarty spent so much time together, but it was well into dusk when John stepped onto the sidewalk and hailed a cab. The sun vanished behind buildings very shortly after and now here he is, sitting in a cab with his insides roiling at what he has to do. He feels sick.

He will have to move out of Sherlock’s flat and out of his life.

John shudders at the thought while telling himself it only makes sense. He would have to move out regardless when this whole thing is over, even without Moriarty’s intervention. Of course he would. Why wouldn’t John go back to living in his own flat and then find himself a condo or house, and a partner. Someone to share his life, maybe even someone he can love, if that’s even possible for him. It’s natural. It’s what people do. 

John releases a long breath, his body trembling slightly as he does. Could Sherlock be that person? He wants to date John. They are officially dating right now. John’s stomach flutters with the power of it and his chest grows warm, almost tight but in an oddly pleasing way. He has so many feelings when it comes to Sherlock, some that actually affect him physically. John has never experienced anything like it in his life. What does it all mean? Do other people feel like this and what do they do about it?

John furrows his brow in confusion, watching as the raindrops get bigger and patter harder against the window, drenching it with a clear sheet of water.

_ “You’re special. I do believe he cares for you.” _

John wants it to be true. God help him, he does. He wants Sherlock to care. Because he cares. He cares and he doesn’t know what it means, but it’s ripping at his insides and he wants so desperately to understand what it all means. But they are just flatmates. John closes his eyes, the cold glass of the window pressing gently against his forehead and it feels so good on the headache beginning to radiate through his head. Just flatmates, friends, colleagues.

Suddenly, John feels it. A sharp hit out of nowhere. A warmth in his chest, small at first, but growing and it fills him with...a kind of peace, happiness. It is something he is wholly unfamiliar with and it completely baffles him, but it makes him feel like he can do anything. He has felt it before, but only recently. Only since meeting Sherlock, if he is honest, and it happens at the oddest times. When Sherlock smiles or laughs that brilliant laugh at one of John’s jokes. When his hand brushes John’s arm to get his attention. When Sherlock’s eyes are bright and sharp with concentration during practice or a bout. When he looked across the table at John in the hotel bar. When he ran his long fingers through John’s hair, over his cheek and down his naked chest in his bed only the night before.

John’s belly is warm now and his brain relaxed as he thinks of the night before. It was hot as hell. Certainly the best, damn near astronomical sexual experience of his life. But it was also sweet and so intimate. All he shared with Sherlock beforehand, something he had told only his parents before and it felt good. Not once did he feel pressured or worried Sherlock would judge him or tell him to stop. He had no inkling that any of it would be used against him later and by god, he would trust Sherlock with more. Everything. The same goes for the talking and touching afterwards, as if they had always done it, like they were together as a couple and had been for years.

John does not want to live anywhere else or be anywhere Sherlock is not.

His chest grows warmer and it travels into his shoulders and down his arms into his biceps. What does it all mean? How can he be so attached to Sherlock so quickly? He has never felt this kind of attachment before and, for all his brilliance, he has no idea what to make of it.

“Here we are,” the cabby’s voice cuts through John’s thoughts. He pays the man in a daze and thanks him as he climbs out of the car, and walks into the hotel. The doorman greets him and he responds in kind, stilling floating. 

When John closes the door to his room and toes off his shoes, his first thought is a wish that Sherlock be there. He was going to phone him and talk. God, how he wants to talk to Sherlock right now, but how can he? He would just have to lie. No, John is better off trying to figure out what he is going to tell Sherlock, and the others, for that matter. 

John makes his way to the kitchenette and pours himself a drink. He tries, he really does, but his mind drifts to Sherlock and the night before. He absolutely marvels. John has never felt so comfortable with anyone in his life, even Bill. He sure as hell never wanted to do the things to Bill that he has thought about doing to Sherlock. John closes his eyes and drinks his scotch in careful measured sips. He can almost feel those soft lips on his, hear that voice in his ears, and see the glorious git standing in front of him like a bloody statue.

John’s eyes pop open. A statue. Moriarty said a Greek god. Why does that sound so familiar? He walks to the bedroom and places the glass on the nightstand. He brushes his teeth, deep in thought. Looking into his own blue eyes, John scrubs a hand through his blonde hair. Then he walks back to the bedroom, changes into pajamas and sits on the edge of the bed. His eyes shift from staring straight ahead to glance at his mobile when the flash of a notification catches his attention. He picks it up and sees the missed calls from Sherlock Holmes, all while John had been with Moriarty. There is also one message. John debates not listening to it. He considers deleting it, but he cannot. Instead, he presses play and listens to that familiar voice.

‘John, I want to talk with you if convenient.’

There is a short pause on the line and John’s smile is wide when the message finishes.

‘If not, call anyway.’

John laughs out loud and stands, taking his phone and scotch with him to the living room. He spends the next three hours in front of the telly frittering away the night with a man and two droids mocking crappy movies. John’s mind absently drifts from Sherlock to Moriarty to Harry and Janine and the bout to tomorrow’s trip. He really should get to sleep, he thinks as his gaze shifts to a clock.

And then John stills. He rolls his eyes back to the telly and then to the kitchenette. He sits up on the couch and straightens his spine, suddenly wide awake.

“A Greek god,” John says aloud. Staring at the telly without seeing it, John’s mouth drops open. They are his own words. He said them to Sherlock outside the curtain in Janine’s hospital room just before the nurse told them they could see her.

_ “Nonsense, John, you do cut an imposing figure during a bout.” _

_ “Don’t patronize me,” he had joked. “I’m not a bloody Greek god. Not like a certain coach I know.” _

_ “I beg to differ,” Sherlock had harrumphed with a fond smile. _

“Janine,” John whispers. What else had they said under the belief that no one was listening? Nothing terribly specific, but enough for anyone to assume he and Sherlock were in some kind of relationship.

John thinks back to the bout, to the incident that led to Janine’s injury. He closes his eyes tight in concentration wishing he had Sherlock’s knack for detail. He has to remember the collision. He just needs to know what Janine did when 32 came careening toward Harry. He squeezes his eyes tightly and bites his bottom lip. He can almost see it. He can almost see 32 coming and Janine is watching. She’s watching! And...calculating.

His eyes open wide in a moment, a gasp on his lips. Janine! She was moving low with her leg out to trip Harry right at the moment 32 hit. There is no mistaking her intention, no excuse for her movements, and that expression she wore. She knew exactly what she was doing, but timed it poorly and her leg was broken instead. It also explained the incidents that occurred when Moriarty, Moran or any of the Demons were nowhere to be found. But would Janine really have gotten involved with poisoning Molly?

“Jesus,” John breathes and grabs his mobile. He has dialed Sherlock’s number and is listening to it ring before hurriedly ending the call and dropping the device on the coffee table. What the fuck is he doing? He can’t tell Sherlock that he has discovered Janine is working with Moriarty any more than he can tell him about their dinner together. If he does, Moriarty will have Sherlock killed.

John sighs and leans back on the couch again. There is nothing for it. His hands are tied. All he can do is resign his position and say goodbye to Sherlock Holmes forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, Jane, you are so mean! Poor John! Poor Sherlock! Haha. You are not wrong. My Empress of Evil shirt is literally in the mail as we speak. Hopefully, I’ll be wearing it as I post next week. That is my dream. Now, I know what you're saying. "Okay, Jane, okay. We got it, but will you be posting something just as gut-wrenching? And will there be any sandwiches?" 
> 
> Mwahahahaha. I could say so many things in answer those questions. Without giving anything away, I will say this: Yes, there will be sandwiches. (diabolical laughter) But seriously, we do know that John is going back to Detroit and we know what he has to tell Sherlock. Gut-wrenching? I think so.
> 
> Question time, my friends! Couldn't get a better lead in to it and I'll start with the question first and foremost on all our minds.  
> 1) What is Sherlock going to do when John tells him he's resigning? What will he say? What CAN he say?  
> 2) What if Sherlock tries to talk John out of it? Will John hold firm or give in?  
> 3) Will John delay telling him anything and, if so, will there be another accident to push John along?  
> 4) Might Moriarty make a personal visit to see what's holding John up?   
> (Hmm. I'll be honest, that terrifies me. I've written nasty Moriartys before, but this one is so calm and subtle. He has such potential for evil and is so quiet about it. He threatens with looks and with his eyes and with smiles. He told John what he wants and he might lose his temper if John defies him, or worse.) 
> 
> Aahhhhh. I'm shivering now, are you? Yikes! Needless to say, the next chapter is going to be rough. I'll try not to be late with it, but I can't promise to go easy on you. I have a reputation to uphold. Heh heh heh.
> 
> Tune in next time to find out on your favorite show and mine, Kung fu Yodlers Feasting on Cheese!  
> Until then, keep your pants dry, your dreams wet and keep you stick on the ice. We're all in this together.  
> Love, Jane


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is on his way back to Detroit to hand in his resignation. No good can come of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi ho, Everyone! It’s been a rough week for a variety of reasons and just when stress was the highest, I got another curve ball. Gotta love that, not to mention your very own Cakey Jane using baseball metaphors. Gah! Has the world gone mad? Haha. Anyway, I’m hoping things get better and that you all like the chapter. It has also been a source of anxiety for me and I’m a little hesitant to post it. Any and all comments are welcome. 
> 
> I'd like to thank my always stylish and wonderful beta, MyBreadAndButter, who keeps me on my toes and sometimes adds to my stress. She's like Barbara Streisand... like buttah! Bwahahahaha! Okay, that's my worst joke so far. Sorry, sorry, I can't help myself. How does Deadpool feel about Barbara? I mean, we all know he loves Wham! *sigh* I think I'm going to crank up some streaming Wham! and give it a listen. So many "good" songs, and George Michael is haunting me. Don't ask.
> 
> Enough rambling, Jane! Get on with it. Here we go.

_ You didn’t have to cut me off. Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing  _

_ and I don’t even need your love,  _

_ but you treat me like a stranger and it feels so rough. _

_ \--Gotye, Somebody That I Used to Know _

Sherlock’s toes tap anxiously on the floor of his office. He can barely keep still, with no practice or even a team workout day, there is little to occupy his mind. Strategy, analysis and new plays usually fill his entire being on post-bout rest days. He certainly has enough work to do, but all he can think about is John. John, navigating the airport with Janine, getting onto the plane that will bring them home. Transporting her to the hospital after they land and settling her into their usual wing. He should soon be in the stadium where Sherlock can see him and make sure with his own eyes that John is well and truly safe. God, it will take everything in his power not to throw his arms around John or leap into the doctor’s arms and wrap his legs around the shorter man’s waist and never let go. Sherlock has spent a shameful amount of time thinking about such a scenario and has complete confidence in John’s ability to bear his weight.

He glances at the wall clock and eyes the red seconds hand as it drifts smoothly around the twelve, ticking off another minute. It is nearly 6:30 in the evening and Mike had sent a text when John left the hospital around 5. He should have been here long ago. The tapping of his toes increases as he continues to think through the day. He had texted John regularly in search of status updates and if he’s honest, because he simply wanted to hear from him, but had received precious few responses from the doctor and every one was brief. It might concern Sherlock if he did not know John more than had his hands full.

Even so, it does concern him. Why is John being so distant? Has he reconsidered what happened between them in Baltimore? Sherlock’s heart sinks as he plummets into the dark hole of doubt he keeps hidden deep inside his mind palace. John has had the time and space to regret it. He probably did go back to the Poe House for the scarf and their tour guide greeted him with it. She would flirt with him and he would respond in kind. Under the impression that John was interested, she had only come on to Sherlock so shamelessly to get John’s attention. A very odd strategy to Sherlock’s way of thinking.

He stops here to consider whether or not John was actually interested. He didn’t seem so inclined, but she was precisely his type, so it was possible. She clearly enjoyed sport. Anyone could see that from the scuffs on her shoes. Her deep love for baggy sweaters, something Sherlock has never understood, would draw them together as well. Add to that her bubbly personality and John couldn’t help but notice her a second time around. John probably went back for the scarf, wearing that absurd oatmeal-colored sweater he likes so much that does absolutely nothing for his figure, and she complimented him on it. They started talking and went to dinner, spent the evening together. Maybe John invited her back to the hotel for drinks and…

Sherlock stops again, closing his eyes and shaking his head like it will shake the thoughts free from his mind. He claws at the walls of doubt, trying to climb back up and escape, but the dirt crumbles in his fingers and he slides down again. He climbs desperately for what feels like hours and grasps at anything he can to pull himself free when he reaches the top. He opens his eyes to see he is still in his office, his laptop still open in front of him and the clock quietly ticking away more time. His gaze shifts around the room as if searching for something to settle on while he tries to think more rationally once again. Practically, John will go back to his own apartment, but there is no reason to believe he is out of danger. The lack of further attempts on his life means nothing. 

Sherlock does not want him to leave regardless. 

He buries his face in his hands and yawns wearily. Sherlock absolutely  **cannot** think about  **that** again. He sighs and opens his eyes, looking at the clock again. He couldn’t even begin to think about sleep the night before and never bothered going to his bedroom. The condo felt cold and lonely without John. Instead of doing anything productive, Sherlock sat in front of MST3K until he fell asleep on the couch somewhere in the middle of Catalina Caper. He awoke hours later, stiff and grumpy until he realized a text from John had been what woke him.

*In the cab heading for the airport. Things are looking good. Janine is not in pain.*

That was at 6:45am, since then there had only been infrequent updates. John would not even engage in conversation when they were on a god awful layover in Chicago. Honestly, why everything has to go through O’Hare is beyond all logic. Still, it is only a day of travel and should not worry Sherlock in the least, but it does. He looks at the clock again and stands to pace, stopping only when his phone suddenly rings. He grabs it quickly and raises it to his ear. The three seconds it takes him to glance at the caller ID and see it is not John slow into minutes, the very air around him crushing the hope right out of his chest. 

“Greg,” he answers gruffly, resting one hand on the desk as he leans against it. 

“John’s on his way to your office,” Greg replies without bothering to greet him. “He’s re…”

Sherlock doesn’t even let Greg finish as he abruptly ends the call when his door is pushed open without warning and John is suddenly standing before him. 

“Sorry. Can I come in?” John’s voice is rough and uncertain.

“Of course,” comes an equally soft reply from Sherlock.

Sherlock watches him move deliberately toward the desk that separates them, only just keeping his own eyes from widening in surprise. John does not look tired from the day of travel and stress. He looks beyond tired. He looks wrecked. There is a stutter in his step and a look in his eyes that can only mean one thing: What transpired between them in Baltimore weighs heavily upon him. Sherlock’s heart sinks for the second time in mere minutes.

“We need to talk,” John avoids looking at him directly. His gaze darts around Sherlock’s desk almost frantically before settling on the stapler. 

Those dreaded words. Sherlock said them to Victor once years ago.

“Yes,” Sherlock rasps, barely able to speak. He is glad Greg phoned him before John walked in so he could face the doctor from behind his desk. He could never make it through this conversation otherwise, his knees already threatening to buckle. He rests both hands on its surface and leans forward. “Greg mentioned it,” he says as evenly as he can.

“He told you?” John looks at him in shock. Trying to appear as normal as possible, Sherlock clears his throat and stands up straight to face him fully.

“He said you were on your way to my office,” Sherlock answers, frustrated that his voice is not his own. Wobbling at the most inopportune time imaginable when he would rather it be steady and reveal nothing. Sherlock takes a breath and tries to use the frustration to his own advantage, trying to compose himself for John’s next words. Trying and failing.

“Oh. Right,” John bites his lower lip and clearly steels himself. Every part of his body says regret. Sherlock closes his eyes slowly. He does not even try to stop himself from doing it, from showing his own emotions. He is too unguarded around John, too comfortable. He never should have let it get to this point or any point. Sentiment. He is such a fool.

“I’ve resigned,” John’s voice is barely above a whisper.

“What?” Sherlock wheezes, his eyes snapping open wide in shock.

“It’s for the best,” John states firmly, looking directly into his unabashed stare.

“No,” Sherlock’s voice sounds strange even to his own ears. He blinks as if trying to focus and closes his mouth with a pop. He feels like he is going to wretch. Staggering backwards, he nearly trips over his chair, but catches himself on the armrests and pushes himself back up. John’s hands reach out instinctively to stop his fall, but stop when he rights himself. They look at one another for a moment with searching, uncertain eyes.

_ What is going on? _

But John doesn’t answer this time. Instead, his blue eyes turn to ice.

“You just have to trust me,” his voice hardens with his eyes.

“You can’t leave,” Sherlock’s words are coming faster and he doesn’t try to slow them down. He doesn’t care that it lays all his cards on the table or that his body language shows every bit of how he is falling apart.

“I’ll do what I want, Sherlock,” John nearly hisses, slamming his hands flat on the desk in anger. A plain, wooden pen holder falls to the floor and pencils roll under the desk.

“No,” Sherlock insists, tone bordering on desperation. He must stay calm. He cannot let his panic or frustration get the better of him. John is not going to listen if he flies into some kind of crazed, emotional outburst. Sherlock squares his shoulders and takes another deep breath. “You are an excellent physician. The team needs you. I know you haven’t been here long, but you have done so much. All the ladies trust you implicitly. And, frankly, so do I.”

He almost flinches. He sees something in John’s eyes, a glimmer of happiness that says what words cannot. When something means so much there is nothing to say. It fades right before his eyes. John’s shoulders fall as if under a crushing weight and Sherlock’s mind is awash with thoughts and feelings. 

_ I trust you. I need you. I don’t let anyone in, not like this, but you opened the gates as if you always had the key. What happened, John? Tell me, please. _

“John, I…” he can’t say it. He can’t risk it.

“Sherlock, I can’t. I just can’t,” John sighs, shaking his head. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“No, wait,” he rushes around the desk, but stops abruptly before reaching John, trying to gather himself. He must stay in control. He casts his gaze sidelong and curses his own feelings before looking back at John. “However you feel about me, about...what happened between us, don’t let it hurt the team. Please, John.”

He tries to keep his voice even, but it shakes slightly on the last two words. John stares at him with a startled expression on his face. Sherlock’s sturdy posture wavers as he watches John.

“How I feel about you,” John repeats in dismay, but goes quiet before saying more. He presses his lips into a thin line, affecting a grim countenance and shaking his head. “I have resigned. I’ve told Greg and now you. I’ll tell Mrs. Hudson tomorrow, put it in writing tonight. It’s done.”

Sherlock’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He takes a sharp breath, his eyes on John. How can he make him stay?

“I’ll start cleaning out my office after I speak with Martha,” John continues and then sighs heavily. He touches his own temples in a pained gesture that makes him look more exhausted than when he walked in. “I’m going back to my place tonight. I’ll get my things out of your flat tomorrow evening. I’ll ring you, so you can leave while I’m there.”

“John, no!” Sherlock truly is desperate now and doesn’t give a shit about hiding it or anything else. Fuck staying in control. God, how has everything gone so terribly wrong so quickly? “In Baltimore, what we did, what happened. We can forget it. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he pleads with the man in front of him. If John wants him to, he can lock away all those memories and never touch them again. He has done it before. It will rip him apart this time, but he can do it. They can go back to being friends like before and maybe John would stay in the condo. They could be roommates, just roommates.

“It  **doesn’t** mean anything,” John bites out the words vehemently.

Sherlock can’t stop a quick gasp and silence settles in around them. He can feel his face starting to crumble, his heart starting to fall apart, but just manages to hold his composure so he reveals nothing. All he allows is a mighty crease of his brow and the twitch of an eye. They are not together. They were never together, never a couple. His heart should not be shattered, but it is. It should not feel like his life is ending. John had warned him about this exact scenario. He said he could not love anyone romantically and, even if he could, why would he give his heart away after so little time had passed? He isn’t a complete idiot like Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” the name whispered between them catches his attention, even when he would rather look anywhere but at the man before him. 

Sherlock’s grey eyes, filling with tears he will have to blink back, shoot straight to John’s face. The doctor is clearly beside himself, but trying to hide how undone he is. Somewhere in the background of his mind Sherlock knows that does not make any sense. The evidence does not fit the situation. John should be emotionless or even angry about Sherlock’s display, not anguished.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Of course it means something. It means…” he shuts his mouth and swallows hard. “It’s Moriarty. He wants to win it all and he’ll do whatever he has to.”

“What?” Sherlock squints in confusion at this sudden outburst of seemingly unrelated information.

“You are right, Sherlock,” he tells him emphatically, stepping forward and placing his hands on the coach’s shoulders. “Keep looking for evidence and watch out for...others.”

“Others?” Sherlock shakes his head slowly. This is not at all what he expected, not by a long shot. He finds his mind shifting from his own panic and sadness toward this new mystery. Part of him tries to stop it, knowing he should stay focused on John, but he cannot. John’s words begin running through his mind over and over again, trying to piece it all together and it takes only seconds for it to fall into place. Something happened while John was in Baltimore alone. It scared him. Moriarty got to him. 

“What did he do?” Sherlock hisses.

The words are out before Sherlock even has the chance to think. His voice is quiet and deadly serious, demanding an answer, but John continues as though he did not hear him.

“It’s Janine. She…” John is warring with himself and if Sherlock was not so distracted with his own thoughts, he would already know exactly what John is trying so hard not to tell him. “Watch everyone! Don’t trust anyone,” John insists again. Suddenly his hands are off Sherlock’s shoulders and he is heading for the door. Sherlock cannot process what just happened or what John said and didn’t say because John is leaving and he can’t. He can’t!

“John, don’t go! Don’t go!” Sherlock lunges forward and wraps his fingers around John’s wrist, holding it with unrelenting strength. “Please, I can’t do it on my own.”

“You’ll be fine, Sherlock,” John says into the space between them, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Yes. Fine, but I don’t want to be fine. I don’t want to be anywhere without you,” Sherlock’s words are coming fast, faster than he can think and he has to think faster. John can’t go. He can’t let him go. 

“I need you,” Sherlock whispers, unshed tears obvious in his voice. 

Sherlock does not know if he said that out loud or in his head. He doesn’t care, doesn’t care what he says or reveals. John has to stay. He can’t lose John.

“I love you! I love you,” he blurts in a ragged tone.

They stare at one another. Sherlock is breathing hard, chest heaving. He does not take his eyes off John, his shoulders bobbing up and down less and less as his breathing returns to normal. His mind finally catches up with his traitorous panic and instantly rebukes.  _ Idiot! _ But he ignores it and repeats quietly. 

“I love you,” his voice is clearer now. Calmer and more collected as his overactive mind comes to rest. He is stating the truth and has never felt more free. 

***

“You...you...you can’t,” John’s voice rasps, his eyes wide in shock and disbelief. He shifts his weight and furrows his brow, a little frown of lines appearing between his eyebrows. Pressing his lips together, he studies Sherlock intently, searching his eyes. “What? You, what? No. No, Sherlock, just no.”

John shakes his head harder with every word that leaves his lips. He tries taking a step toward the door, but the long fingers already wrapped around his wrist tighten. He looks down at those fingers and then back to the coach, seeing a determination that tries to hide pain.

_ Fuck. Fuck!  _

He’s hurting Sherlock. He hadn’t meant those words to sound the way they did. He’s fucking up the whole thing.

“That’s not what I meant,” he begins, but flails. “You… You haven’t known me five minutes. These things take time, feelings take time to form, don’t they? Sherlock, you don’t know me,” he pleads.

“I have not known you long, true,” Sherlock licks his lips, looking at John like he is a spooked deer, “but can we agree that I know you well?”

John does not answer, too shocked to speak, but he nods in affirmation.

“Good. That’s good,” Sherlock inches closer. 

John keeps his gaze on those grey eyes. He could get lost in them, swim in them for hours. He will never tire of them, or of this man. It is all too much and not something his brain is used to handling. His feelings for Sherlock are so strong and he has no idea how to feel about that or what to call them. John does not feel this way about people. It is not that he doesn’t care, he just…

_ ‘I do believe he cares for you.’ _

“Is there anything in particular that you are hiding from me?” Sherlock asks over Moriarty’s voice in John’s mind. His eyes focus in again.

“Well,” John swallows, “no. I mean, apart from the not falling in love thing and I told you about that. ’Course I would have thought that’d send anyone running.”

“It hasn’t,” Sherlock’s voice is soft, but steady and his grip loosens slightly. He takes another small step closer.

“So I see,” John replies slowly, full of hesitation.

They stare at one another for a long time, each one willing the other to understand what words cannot say. Finally, Sherlock breaks the silence.

“I know I’m not qualified to explain this. Molly has always been far better at it than I,” Sherlock puffs out a breath, a wrinkle of concentration appearing between his eyebrows. John bites his lip and watches the man search for the right words, marveling at how adorable he is and trying not to show it. “She tells me to follow my heart. It’s not a precise science.”

Sherlock stops suddenly, his face full of doubt.

“Look, what I said, it doesn’t have to mean anything. We can forget it,” Sherlock shakes his head, trying for nonchalance and failing.

“No,” John interrupts, taking his own step toward the taller man. They are very close now. He watches Sherlock with a steady gaze, finally feeling the befuddlement lift. It is like stepping from a thick fog and he can finally see the man more clearly. “We can’t. It means too much. It means...everything.”

Sherlock blinks his eyes wide. They sparkle and shine, and John cannot take his own off of them. He wants this man like nothing else in his life. It is not just sexual desire and is not like caring for a friend. John most certainly does care, but it is so much more than that. It is confusing. He still has no idea what to call these feelings or how to handle them. What should he do? What is he supposed to think? It is completely and utterly baffling.

John swallows and lets his lips part, his gaze locked on Sherlock’s face. It falls quickly to the soft, full lips that John felt against his own only two nights ago. They dropped kisses on his neck and body, hot and wanting. He is sure his eyes must be dilated, his face and neck flushing. John shuffles closer and takes Sherlock’s free hand in his own. He can feel Sherlock’s breath on his face, warm and welcoming. John wets his lips and tilts up on his toes as Sherlock bends his neck down and their lips meet.

The kiss is gentle and sweet. John still does not know what this baffling feeling is, but he tries to put every ounce of it into this perfect kiss. It flows through every part of his body and into Sherlock and back. This kiss, it has to be perfect...because it has to be their last.

“I’m sorry,” John pulls away. “I can’t. I can’t stay. I can’t do this.”

“John,” Sherlock’s eyes snap open, his face rife with despair.

“I can’t,“ he pushes Sherlock away with enough force to knock him back two steps. John feels it in his chest suddenly and winces. The pain of his heart clenching and then trying to defenestrate from his body through any window it can find only to thunk into his chest cavity and fall lifeless and defeated. Resisting the urge to clutch at the nearly unbearable pain, John shakes his head and tries to concentrate. He avoids Sherlock’s eyes.

“I don’t know what it means, Sherlock,” he declares in frustration, not even aware of what he is saying until his mind catches up. “I don’t understand it or how I feel about it, but it’s all… It’s exactly why I have to go.”

“To protect me,” Sherlock ventures as if he already knows exactly what Moriarty said to John and only needs confirmation. 

“Yes. No!” John looks at him in growing panic. He can’t say anymore, shouldn’t say anymore. He risks Sherlock’s life with every word. He needs to leave. He never should have come. He should have gone to his flat and phoned Sherlock to tell him all this.

John turns for the door, but Sherlock grabs hold of his arm and yanks him backwards. John twists to free himself, but just gives the lanky-armed bastard more to lock claws on.

“Let me go,” John glares at Sherlock’s hand and then meets his gaze again. He repeats himself in a low, dark voice. “Let. Me. Go.”

Sherlock does not obey the command and the part of his brain works through every strategy, every bout, seems to have kicked into overdrive.

“You’re afraid of Moriarty,” Sherlock is saying now and goddammit, John has already killed him.

“No, Sherlock! Let go,” John lurches forward, taking the coach with him. He has wrapped his long limbs around John like a snake and any attempt to escape results in tightening coils.

John lurches again and they slam against the door. Rolling them against the wall, John pins Sherlock with his body and tries to wiggle free. When he succeeds in getting an arm out, Sherlock pushes off the wall and sends them tumbling to the floor. John comes down with a crack, the coach atop his body. Sherlock takes advantage of the split-second pause John needs to get his bearings, quickly straddling his hips and pushing his wrists to the floor with his hands. Though the two men are very similar in strength, the force of his weight and the fulcrum created by his height play in Sherlock’s favor.

“Sherlock, get the fuck off of me!” John shouts, thrashing this way and that.

“Talk to me, John! Tell me what’s wrong,” Sherlock insists, struggling to hold him still. “Please don’t shut me out.”

“Get off!” John huffs angrily.

“We can do this together,” Sherlock implores.

“No!” John shouts.

“Tell me why you’re doing this because this isn’t you,” Sherlock is begging now and it is tearing at John’s heart.

“It’s too dangerous!” John blurts, already hating himself. He wrenches his arms from Sherlock’s grip and twists his body into a roll. Unfortunately, the bastard just uses the momentum to roll John onto his back again. He looks down at the doctor and grumbles in frustration. John can feel it rumble through his chest. He tries to continue the struggle, but his heart is severed and bleeding out. John is exhausted. He wants to stay with Sherlock forever, but protecting him means leaving. He squeezes his eyes shut and doesn’t try to stop the moisture in them from slipping out.

“Tell me, John. Please,” Sherlock’s voice is low and gentle. It pleads and also demands. It is that voice that makes John stop trying to free himself. That soothing voice coupled with gentle hands tracing a path down his chest.

He raises his gaze to look at Sherlock, beautiful and panting. John’s hands come to rest on Sherlock’s thighs and another tear slips from his eye. He lets his body relax as he loses himself in those eyes, swirling and deep. Greens and blues merging with grey, all focused on John. They can see into John’s mind and pull free the worry and fear. 

John tilts his head to the left and looks at Sherlock thoughtfully. Warm fingers cup his cheek, a thumb wiping away a tear that slowly trickles down. John closes his eyes again and leans into the touch. He can still see Sherlock’s face in his mind’s eye, smiling like he has a secret only the two of them know. His lips part as he bends forward to whisper in John’s ear:

“He threatened you...forcing you to resign...we’ll do it together...you’re not alone...never alone…”

“Sherlock,” John gasps, opening his eyes and seeing that the two of them are now side by side facing one another on the floor. When the hell did that happen? His eyes were only closed for a moment. Sherlock is looking at him, searching. Had he asked a question? And then it hits John with the force of a truck. 

_ Alone. _

John had felt it deep down in his bones when Bill died, the crushing sense of being truly alone. It took a long time, but he had moved on. At least, he thought he had worked through it and left those feelings behind. Now John can see that he only hid it from himself. Somehow, over the years, especially since his parents died, he convinced himself that alone was better.  _ Alone is what I have. Alone protects me. _ No real relationships, no love, or close friends. Nothing to tie him to anyone and then coming here turned his life upside down. He likes the skaters, genuinely. And Greg and Martha and Sherlock. He likes Sherlock? No, it’s more. So much more and something he can’t even begin to understand.

“He threatened you,” John finally says in a soft, breathless tone. He meets Sherlock’s eyes and cups the man’s face with both hands. “He will kill you. If I stay, if I tell you anything about why I’m leaving, if I do anything but resign and go, he’ll kill you. You’re too important to me, Sherlock. You’re...I…”

John trails off as his voice gives out. He has no idea what to say anyway, and no idea what he even wants to say. He wants Sherlock to know, to understand how he feels, but he is not sure himself. What he does know is that he has put Sherlock in grave danger. He has killed him with his words.

“God, what have I done?” John mumbles as he releases Sherlock’s face and covers his own eyes.

“He’s lying,” Sherlock’s voice books no argument.

“What?” utter confusion showing on John’s expressive face as he uncovers it.

“He’s not going to hurt me,” Sherlock sits up and offers his hand to John, who takes it and pulls up to sit with him. “If I was a target, he would have made it known by now.”

“And you’re willing to risk your life on the strength of that?” John asks incredulously. 

“Yes,” Sherlock answers simply. “He wants me to witness his victory. To feel the defeat knowing I have done everything possible to stop him and failed.  **That** is what Moriarty wants.”

He leans close to John and covers his hand where it rests on the floor between them. 

“He won’t hurt me,” he smiles softly at John.

“I wish I could believe that,” John says, resigned. 

“It’s true, John. I’d stake my life on it,” Sherlock promises. 

“You are,” John snaps louder. Incredulous disbelief racks his body, making it restless and twitchy. He wants to put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders or around his arms, but sort of gestures aimlessly between the two of them instead. “I can’t believe you’re being so blase about this. We’re talking about your life!”

“And Molly’s and yours,” Sherlock finishes, watching John with razor sharp eyes. With this one look Sherlock makes it clear just how seriously he takes it. “And every skater on our track. You help keep us all safe and alive when we are all at risk. Think, John, think!”

He grasps John’s arms hard, his eyes intense and completely focused on the doctor. John knows exactly what Sherlock is going to say and it is a sound argument. Can he really step away from the team knowing the danger they are in?

“Molly would be dead without you! No one else would have seen what you did in time to save her.  **That’s** why Moriarty wants you to walk away,” Sherlock sounds so sure.

A thought unbidden pops into John’s mind and it sets every gear turning in the opposite direction. How likely is Moriarty to honor their agreement? Rock City and its coach with no doctor…not likely.

“You are a complication, John. An unknown variable. He will tell you whatever he needs to to make you go. He. Is. Lying,” Sherlock pauses to really look at John and, for the first time since Baltimore, John opens himself to the man - mind, body and soul. Sherlock’s mouth falls open at the sudden contrast and John almost wants to giggle, in spite of himself. The quippy coach, brilliant and ever unruffled in post-bout interviews, is speechless. John wants to kiss him. He wants to pull him to his body and kiss those ridiculous cheekbones, his forehead and nose, cheeks and eyelids. God, this man. John has no idea how to understand the depth of his feeling for this man.

“You’re right,” John nearly gasps, the air heavy with emotion. He swallows hard. Swallows down the desire to forget it all and just be with Sherlock. “Whether you’re on the list or not, he’ll keep to his plan. My leaving just increases the danger.”

John nods as he speaks, more to himself, but agreeing with Sherlock nonetheless.

“Exactly,” Sherlock says sensibly. His expression is a bit smug and smacks of ‘There is no other way to view it, John’.

This time the doctor almost does smile, but holds it at bay. There is one more very important thing he must say to the infuriating man before him. John reaches for him quickly, cupping his face in between his hands. Sherlock’s cheeks are warm and soft and perfect on John’s palms. His thumb strokes a cheekbone of its own volition. John looks deeply into those grey eyes. Flecks of green and blue sparkle back, telling him everything, every secret of a man normally so guarded.

“So help me, Sherlock, if you are wrong, I don’t know what…” John’s voice hitches and the words are gone. His tone was a raspy whisper said all in a rush and he thought he could make it through, but welling emotion got the better of him. He swallows hard and tries again.

“I don’t know what I would do,” he drops his head.

It’s true. It may be ridiculous, but it’s true. John has never needed anyone, not since Bill and his parents were gone, and that was fine. He built up his walls and did his job, lived his life and then in walked Sherlock Holmes and it was just....fate.

Words suddenly fill John’s mind, reverberating off the walls of his skull. A song he has not heard in years. Not since he watched a certain movie with his mother. It was the last one they saw together.

_ I’ve grown accustomed to his face. _

_ He almost makes the day begin. _

How many times has he felt that way as he walked into Sherlock’s kitchen to see him standing by the stove, making those special eggs?

“Oh god, Sherlock,” he breathes, a tear streaking down his cheek. “I want you in my life. I want you forev…”

John bites his lip. Keeps in the word.

Sherlock watches him with soft and shining eyes. He sighs and tilts his head in John’s hands as he closes the gap between them. Pressing a soft kiss to his lips, Sherlock breathes against John’s mouth and then tips his chin down to rest their foreheads together. 

“I will always be by your side, John. Always,” he promises and for the first time in a long time, John believes those words wholeheartedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay!! Yay, Jane, you have taken mercy upon us! 
> 
> John tried, he did, but lying to Sherlock was too much for him AND he’s that much closer to seeing his true feelings for Sherlock. How great is the moment when Sherlock just blurts it out? “I love you!” and he doesn’t try to take it back. He just lets it be. John’s reaction is the greatest too. “You...you can’t. You haven’t known me five minutes.” Hahaha! I love it! I mean, I’m clearly biased so please let me know what you think. I don’t want to beg, but I’m not above it and it has been a bad week. Any encouragement is more than welcome and VERY appreciated. You all mean so much to me. 
> 
> I want to be honest before I turn to question time. The next couple weeks could be hard and I may not get the next two chapters out on Sundays, but I’ll do my best. Please be with me in spirit. I will definitely be with you. 
> 
> Now, question time!  
> 1) Now that the two have joined once again, what are their plans for foiling Moriarty?  
> 2) Speaking of, what will Jim have to say about this? John's taking a big step defying him. Mistake??  
> 3) How is Sherlock going to feel about all this once he has a chance to think about the fact that he just confessed his love for John? (head exploding)  
> 4) How does John feel about it? Is he going to encourage him to discover his own love for Sherlock or scare him off?  
> 5) Ultimately, what is going to happen next?!?! Moriarty could strike! It could be the team or John or Sherlock OH GOD, JANE! WHO?? WHAT??? HOW?? WHEN??? WHERE??? Hey, this is like grade school. Lol.
> 
> (read in DP's Bob Ross voice)  
> Thanks for joining me with this exciting and amazingly free of curses school lesson. Join me again next time for another great lesson. We'll be talking about nouns and verbs. Oh, sweet baby jesus, it'll be great.  
> Until next time, my friends.   
> I love you. Jane


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't going to resign.  
> Sherlock just blurted out his feelings.  
> They are home again.  
> So what happens now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends! I’m back and I’m sorry to have kept you all waiting so long. I didn’t expect shit to go right off the rails and get so off schedule. I’m afraid chapter 18 will have to wait as well. It won’t be anywhere near ready this weekend, so I will post it next weekend. I should even have extra time over the holiday. Yay! I’m sorry I couldn’t keep everything on track and hope you’ll forgive me. It's been a tricky couple of weeks.
> 
> That’s the bad news. The good news is I don’t have cancer! YAY, FUCKING, YAY!!! The jury was out for the last 14 days or so and I got the results a couple days ago. I can’t tell you how relieved I am. It’s absolutely amazing in a year where there hasn’t been a lot of good news. So it's happy dance time! You know I've been doing it the last two days. Thunderstorms are scheduled for tomorrow and you can bet your ass I'll be out dancing in it with "Singin' in the Rain" on my lips. That's Cakey Jane for ya.
> 
> On another personal note, this chapter has really shaped up into one of my favorites. As special thank you to my beta, MyBreadAndButter for her fabulous guidance and patience. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I.

_ Mess up my bed with me. Kick off the covers, I'm waiting.  _

_ Every word you say, I think I should write down. Don't want to forget come daylight.  _

_ Happy to lay here, just happy to be here. I'm happy to know you...and no need to worry. That's wasting time.  _

_ And no need to worry what's been on my mind. It's you. _

_ \--Joshua Radin, Paperweight _

Sherlock’s condo is a welcome sight when he opens the door and John follows him in. They hang their coats in the front closet and head for the kitchen, though Sherlock takes a detour to the bathroom.

He flushes the toilet and turns on the faucet, resting his hands together under the warm water. Sherlock had ample time to think on the drive here. Instead of pretending to go to a hotel or his apartment, John simply followed him in his own car. Moriarty already knows he is staying here, so why bother hiding, John had said. The quiet had done Sherlock good and hopefully John as well.

Sherlock used the time to collect his thoughts. John has not explained all he learned during the dinner with Moriarty and Sherlock has many questions. He grits his teeth and grimaces. The very idea of the dinner sets him on edge. That vile little man should not be allowed anywhere near John, much less share a meal with him.

Sherlock grumbles his disapproval as he dries his hands. He glances in the mirror and everything around him slows, as a door in his mind palace he had soundly shut creeks open. He told John he loves him. He told  **John** he loves him. His eyes are wide as they look back at him in the mirror. He had hastily shoved that bit of information into a side room almost as soon as he said it and it seemed to have disappeared. Seems it was just waiting for an opportune moment, surfacing once his guard was down. Now he relives certain parts of the confrontation in his office in full detail, each one already stored in his mind palace forever, like the kiss. The kiss right after he said it. It was no ordinary kiss. Sherlock felt John putting every ounce of himself into that kiss. He was giving himself over without doubt or hesitation. Sherlock could feel all of him and it was the most comforting, wonderful, perfect place he had ever been. Even though John immediately backed away, crumbling every bridge they had just built, Sherlock knows this man is his future.

Sherlock continues to stare at himself in the mirror as John’s words echo through his mind.  _ It means too much. It doesn’t mean anything. It means everything. You’re too important to me. I want you in my life.  _ The answer is staring him in the face.

John Watson loves him.

A giddy smile spreads across Sherlock’s lips and his whole face brightens as his heart swells with joy. He allows himself a gleeful, little chuckle before letting himself think it through entirely. John is most definitely in love with him, but John has not reached the same conclusion and there is no telling whether or not he will ever realize his feelings. Bill’s death dealt him a hard blow and the guilt made John shut down and shut out his emotions. It will take a long time to undo all the damage, if it can ever be undone and Sherlock has never been very patient.

Would he wait for this man? Is it worth it?

Sherlock tables his thoughts when a peculiar scent wafts into the room. His grey gaze comes back into focus and he looks absently toward the ceiling, trying to deduce it by just sniffing the air. Garlic and Parmesan. He goes to the door and opens it, poking his head out with another sniff. Sherlock, in essence, follows his nose to the kitchen where he finds John standing at the stove with two pots on the burners. Sherlock stands in the doorway and blinks as John looks at him casually, stirring the contents of one pot with a wooden spoon.

“What?” John asks quizzically.

“Are you cooking?” Sherlock replies. “I couldn’t have been ten minutes.”

“Only takes twenty,” he nods at the pots. “Since I found you at your desk, I assume you haven’t eaten.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest and closes it again. He presses his lips together in a frown, unable to deny it and John smirks.

“I knew it,” he says smugly. “It’ll be about ten minutes more. Why don’t you get us some glasses and wine?”

Sherlock straightens his spine petulantly and goes to the built-in wine rack near the fridge. He pairs a nice white with what he smells from the sauce. Pulling two glasses and the corkscrew, he walks to the table and places the glasses upon it. He watches John for a moment, stirring the sauce and glancing at the pasta, and catches himself sighing. Huffing in bemusement, he busies himself with twisting the tool and pulling the cork free. He pours the pale golden liquid into the glasses and positions them in front of the two chairs with care. Heading for the cabinets, he opens a drawer and grabs two sets of utensils with napkins to complete the table.

Meanwhile, John is dishing up linguine, adding sauce and plunking peas next to it. He crosses to the table and hands a plate to Sherlock.

“It looks delicious,” the taller man smiles and breathes in the dish’s aromas. 

“It is,” John grins. “Old Watson family recipe.”

“Mmm, a secret recipe?” Sherlock jokes, grinning as John remembers their first morning together as roommates. “Must be very quick and easy.”

“Clearly,” John laughs as he turns back to the stove to dish some up for himself. Sherlock places his own plate on the table and waits for John to join him before sitting. He watches the muscles in John’s back flex as he moves the ladle from the pot to his plate, drizzling sauce over the pasta. “Sorry, there’s no garlic bread. Didn’t have time for that sort of thing. I believe that’s what you Americans are so fond of.”

John laughs quietly and turns to face Sherlock, but stops before heading to the table. 

“Problem?” John asks, raising his brows.

“On the contrary,” Sherlock gestures for him to sit, “I am always on the lookout for such recipes. Will you teach me?”

“Oh, mm-mm,” John hums a negative response and shakes his head as he approaches the table and sets down his plate. “Can’t. You’d have to be a Watson.”

“I see,” Sherlock’s lips curve upwards. John is teasing him, flirting, but there is a certain tone to his voice as well. It is both serious and brimming with hope. Sherlock’s smile grows and he wants to reply, say something witty and suggestive, but nothing comes to mind. Yet the moment does not flail into awkwardness. John, beautiful, clever John, chuckles and nods at Sherlock to sit.

“Let’s eat before it gets cold,” John laughs as they slip into their chairs.

After the first bite, Sherlock raises his brows and nods his approval while John waves a dismissive hand. They eat for a few minutes in companionable silence. 

All at once, in the blink of an eye, Sherlock knows it deep down in his bones. It sweeps over him, the wave of clarity that is usually only felt at the end of one’s life. Short answer: Yes. He will wait for John until the end of time.

“John,” Sherlock shifts his weight in the chair and fixes the doctor with a disarming gaze. He would honestly rather talk about anything else, but needs must. “What exactly did you and Moriarty discuss at dinner? Leave nothing out.”

“Mostly how best to piss you off,” John answers with a puff of breath. “He wanted to…”

Sherlock cocks a brow when John stops so abruptly and moves uneasily in his seat. His eyes shift around the table and finally land on his own plate where he twirls his fork in the linguine aimlessly. Sherlock extends a hand over the small kitchen table toward John’s. It is a movement he can quickly divert if John tenses or pulls away, but he does not.

“John?” he asks lightly. John meets his eyes when their fingertips touch. He sighs again and bites his lower lip. Sliding his hand closer, he covers Sherlock’s fingers with his own and lifts his blue eyes to meet Sherlock’s.

“He wants to distract you now,” John confesses reluctantly. “Make you lose your focus and he wanted me to do it. The original plan was to scare me off.”

“Thus targeting you for murder,” Sherlock reasons, even as another part of his brain relishes the warmth of John’s fingers over his own, “which was perhaps always meant as only an attempt.”

“Right, and when I didn’t flinch at the danger…” John continues with a grimace. 

“Only became more drawn to it, I’d say,” Sherlock remarks quietly and raises a sly brow. John huffs a harsh breath.

“Junkie for the thrill, that’s me,” he winces and cocks his head. “Moriarty thought he’d recruit me instead. What’s better than using someone you trust to bring you down?”

“Another kind of poison,” Sherlock muses. He looks at John appraisingly. “He underestimated you.” 

John’s eyes soften and his brow wrinkles.

“I would never betray you,” he breathes.

John laces his fingers with Sherlock’s and curls them down, gripping long pale fingertips with his own. Sherlock’s heart skips a beat and lashes flutter, even as John’s expression hardens again.

“He wants to destroy you, Sherlock,” John tells him gravely, his eyes unwavering. “He tried to take Molly from you. Thank god that avenue is shut off now, thanks to Mycroft,” he lets out the breath he had been holding. “Remind me to bake him a pie when this is all over.”

“You bake?” Sherlock’s mouth twitches up. John’s brows rise in disbelief at the joke. “Another Watson family secret? Now you’ll have to…”

“Sherlock,” John rebukes, leaning forward and squeezing his hand earnestly. “He knows you care for me and he wants to use it. He wanted to pretend he and I were a couple. He thought it would break you, but fuck all if I take up with him under any circumstances. Why are you laughing? Sherlock!”

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock tries to look more serious and fails, dissolving into giggles. “It’s just you...you’re so noble.”

He chuckles around the last word, truly enjoying John’s narrowed eyes and pursed lips, but he soon sobers. He squeezes John’s fingers between his own, looking into the doctor’s eyes. 

“You would protect me at all costs, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock says solemnly.

“Damn right, I would,” the doctor replies defiantly. 

They look at one another in a strange, soulful way until they suddenly, inexplicably burst into laughter. It is completely inappropriate, but feels so good and cuts the tension in the air. In a moment, their hands part and they resume eating. Sherlock tries to concentrate on Moriarty and his plans, but finds his thoughts are drawn to John and he cannot seem to stop it from happening again and again. Taking a rather large bite of pasta, he finally surrenders to it and strolls through a long hall in the wing he has created for the man in his mind palace. As he considers the doctor and all his brilliant features, Sherlock huffs a quiet laugh. This man is able to laugh with him in the face of this danger and understands Sherlock so completely that he does not criticize his need for levity. That John would do all this  **and** spit in Moriarty’s face with him is absolutely amazing. Sherlock must never let him go, whether he realizes his own feelings for Sherlock or not.

When Sherlock finally leaves the mind palace and comes back to himself, he finds that they have both finished eating. John is sitting forward with his elbows on the table and a wine glass in his hands. He wears a knowing smirk and Sherlock raises an inquiring brow.

“There he is again,” John chuckles softly. “You were miles away.”

“Mind palace,” Sherlock offers by way of explanation. He gestures absently toward his own head.

“I figured,” John traces a finger around the rim of his glass, skimming over the spot that meets his lips each time he takes a drink. It is the most goddamn erotic thing Sherlock has ever seen in his life. Well, discounting Baltimore, of course. “You know I can say just about anything to you when you’re in there and you have no idea.”

“Oh?” Sherlock eyes him with keen interest. “What sort of things?”

“That’s none of your business,” his lips stretch into a coy grin and he chuckles softly. “Besides, we haven’t time for that now.”

“Ah. So what is it we  **do** have time for?” Sherlock breathes in an even tone. Oh god, they are flirting and he loves it. John’s open body language is both promising and frightening in equal measure, and the sly curl of John’s lip makes Sherlock’s head spin. Heat is creeping up the back of his neck and his cheeks are flushed. Arousal pools in his belly and he is suddenly wondering what John’s fingers would taste like as he continues to watch them skim across the rim of the wine glass. Sherlock deftly runs his tongue over his top lip, just its tip visible in the quick movement. When he opens his mouth to speak, John beats him to it and, unfortunately, what John says kills the mood entirely.

“Moriarty’s man. Moran. You know him?” John asks in a hard tone. Sherlock closes his mouth into a frown. Clearly, he and John were not at all on the same wavelength. Somehow they just took a u-turn without Sherlock even realizing it.

“Sebastian Moran, yes,” Sherlock all but sneers. “He has been at Moriarty’s side for as long as I’ve been here. In spite of that, it’s difficult to actually lay eyes on him. He likes to keep in the shadows.”

“He’s our shooter. The man who came to my flat and my office,” John states flatly, his eyes dull.

“Moran?” Sherlock perks up and leans forward in his chair. “Are you sure?”

“It only took one word to remember that voice and he said nine,” John fixes him with a gaze that is deadly serious as he slowly nods once. “I’m sure.”

“Now, that’s not a skill set I expected,” Sherlock places his elbows on the table and steeples his hands before his lips. “I was told he tried to come at me from behind after I punched Moriarty, but a killer? Definitely not what I expected.”

“Are you ready for another shock?” John asks grimly. 

Turning cool blue-grey eyes on him, Sherlock thinks he sees John shiver. He files it away for later and waits expectantly for the doctor to continue.

“Janine is working with him,” John says plainly, obviously deciding it better to just rip off the band-aid.

“What?” Sherlock gapes, completely taken aback. Also not at all what he expected.

“She was trying to trip Harry up when she got hurt,” John explains hesitantly, studying the coach carefully. “Harry was obviously being targeted by the other team and Janine used it to her advantage. 32 had nothing to do with it.” 

John pauses when Sherlock’s face darkens, his eyes full of fury. John pushes his wine glass to the side and leans forward as far as he can, fixing the other man with intense eyes. Sherlock does not shrink back, but also cannot believe his ears. It can’t be true. Not someone on his team, not one of the ladies.

“Think about it, Sherlock. Why was Janine standing or moving the way she was? Why was she watching Harry that way? Was it like a teammate or a target?” John’s words come fast into the space between them and every one pushes Sherlock closer to the boiling point. John knows what he is doing and still, he continues. “I know you have the whole thing stored in that palace of yours. Just watch it and tell me that’s what you coached her to do,” he challenges.

Fury bubbles through Sherlock’s veins, threatening to explode to the surface. He stares John down with ice cold daggers. He wants to shout. He wants to punch the doctor square in the face just like he did Moriarty. John, the same man who seemingly knows Sherlock so well, just accused one of the ladies of sabotage. It is reprehensible. Despicable. They are a team, damn it, a team! Operating as a unit, protecting one another. Caring about one another is what they do. It’s who they are. Can John even understand that? He certainly  **cannot** come in after only a few months, presuming to know them and then accuse one of them of sabotage and endangering her teammates. It goes against everything they believe in, everything they strive for and all he has taught them.

“You bastard,” Sherlock hisses, rising from his chair. His whole body burns with anger and his eyes are blazing. John mirrors the motion and stands across from him, every muscle in his body tense and at the ready.

“Sherlock, stop,” John commands, raising both hands and facing his palms out toward the taller man. “Just listen to me. Think about it.”

“I don’t have to. Janine would never intentionally harm any teammate,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles low in his chest and sounds like the growl of a dragon. He slowly stalks around the table, his shoulders back and somehow broader than usual. He moves closer to John, uttering stinging words all the way. John visibly flinches after one in particular, but does not step away from the taller man, who is soon looming over him. “You assume that I would be so blind as to **not** see it.”

“Sherlock, this has no reflection on you,” John tries to explain, the hint of pleading in his voice.

“Like hell it doesn’t!” Sherlock thunders. John’s startled eyes widen and his mouth falls open as he looks up at the man towering over him. Sherlock is now right in his face and gesturing wildly as he speaks. “You think I would allow this? That I’m too ignorant of human emotion that I can’t see when someone is lying! That I would let my own sentiment get the better of me!” Pure rage simmers in his voice and courses through his veins. 

“No, Sherlock…” John is pleading now, desperate to calm Sherlock down.

“We are a team and for you to insult that bond and our dedication to one another… It’s something you couldn’t possibly understand.”

“I do understand,” John insists.

“Bullshit! You’ve never belonged to anything in your life!” Sherlock yells. He is bubbling over with fury now. If John knew anything at all, he would know the most basic element of Sherlock’s philosophy is teamwork, loyalty and trust. For even one of the ladies to help Moriarty...Moriarty, the bastard. Do whatever it takes to win. Bring everyone down, even if it’s your own teammate.

“Goddammit, Sherlock, if you’d just listen,” John growls, his own temper flaring.

“Listen to what? Your cockamamie theories?” Sherlock’s lips curl into a snarl and his eyes narrow into sharp slits. “You accepted his offer, didn’t you?”

“What?” John blinks, completely thrown off balance. It is the opportunity Sherlock has waited for. He steps up into John’s personal space and attacks with words so sharp they could leave bright red marks on John’s skin.

“You  **are** trying to poison us. Making me question myself and all the ladies,” Sherlock’s fury burns white hot now and he rails at John. “You want me to think I’ve failed them!”

“No! That’s not how it happened,” John bites out, pushing in just as close and refusing to back down.

“Then how did it happen, John? Hmm? Tell me. Tell me how he convinced you to betray us,” Sherlock has boiled over. So consumed by anger, he barely knows what he is saying.

“Fuck off!” John shouts, shoving the taller man back a few steps, his eyes blazing with determination.  “I just said I’d never betray you! What, you think I was lying?” His whole body is nearly shaking with anger and frustration. He clenches his fists and grinds his teeth as he inhales deeply to ground himself.  “You don’t want to believe me! Just look back at the bout. It’s all there,” John slows his words and pokes each one into Sherlock’s chest with his finger for emphasis. “Janine. Targeted. Harry.”

Breathing heavily, Sherlock launches into a string of curses and insults, but even as he does it, a small traitorous part of his mind goes to the archives and begins playing their last bout. __

_ The whistle blows and the bout begins. Fast forward, forward, forward. Slow down and play. The jam begins with another whistle blow.  _

_ There it is. _

Sherlock’s mouth ceases to move mid-word and his breath stops in his throat. It feels like he has been punched in the chest and his heart has stopped beating. It’s there, right before his eyes. It had all happened so quickly and he didn’t see it then. Or maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe John is right and his own camaraderie and affection for the ladies has blinded him to reality. Sentiment. Goddamn sentiment. 

He can see it now. It’s all there and so obvious that he is a fool for missing it. There was no reason for Janine to be so close or so low. The end result would have been completely different had Harry and 32 been more evenly matched, but Harry’s solid frame and strong legs kept her from going down the way Janine had anticipated.

“I…” Sherlock croaks. His mouth opens and closes silently. He is absolutely speechless, his mind grappling to understand why she would do it.

“Moriarty told me I’m no Greek god,” John almost whispers. He peers up at the flummoxed man before him and explains hesitantly. “I only said that once when someone else could hear and there’s only one person who could have heard it.”

Sherlock blinks, his eyelids twitching as they close. John’s words sink into his skin and a new room appears in his mind palace, one that pulls memories from different bouts. He relives equipment failures and injuries, viewing them all through the lens of this new knowledge and seeing Janine’s role in many of them. 

“Oh, god,” Sherlock’s whole body deflates and he backs away from John. He closes his eyes and drops his face into waiting hands. His chest is heavy with shame and disappointment, with all he taught the ladies of loyalty, trust and teamwork, he would never have anticipated this. 

Sherlock’s stomach lurches in his body and he feels sick. He had closed his mind to the possibility, even with all the evidence at hand. He simply could not believe any of the ladies would be involved, in spite of accidents occurring no matter who they skated against and equipment failures even after it had all been checked. He ignored the common denominator of themselves, the  **only** commonality, and that choice put all of the ladies in danger. Fucking sentiment. It always finds a way. 

“It’s not your fault,” John’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he lifts his head from his hands to see that John has moved closer to him again. Firm resolve is written all over his face and his hands are clenched at his sides. Sherlock only shakes his head and sighs.

“I am their coach. What they know they learn from me,” Sherlock tells him with resignation in his tone.

“Bollocks. I know you, Sherlock, and this did not come from you,” John insists, moving even closer. His brows knitted and jaw set. He has no intention of taking any shit and Sherlock knows him well enough to know he will not relent until Sherlock sees his point of view, but he can’t see it. 

“You’ve known me a few months, John,” Sherlock says dismissively. “You don’t know me. It’s not enough time. You said so yourself.”

“And I admitted I was wrong,” John comes right into Sherlock’s personal space, his voice almost angry in its persistence. “I have watched you, all of you, at practice and bouts and in the raw. Nothing you have said or done could ever lead to this and every skater on the team would agree with me.”

Sherlock looks him in the eye and sees the passion, the determination and above it all, true honesty. John is right. Sherlock knows he is. He hates to admit it, but there really is no point in blaming himself when the fault is Janine’s. She made the choice to betray the team and it is her cross to bear. However, Sherlock did fail to see her complicity and it endangered every skater on the team. He must still accept that responsibility and whatever consequences accompany it. 

“Be that as it may,” Sherlock begins, his heart heavy and aching, “I must tell the ladies when we meet for workouts tomorrow. Then we’ll see if I hold practice or resign my position.”

“Resign?” John’s jaw drops and he stutters back a step.

“Janine may have made the decision to betray Rock City, but I failed every woman on the team by not suspecting her,” he smiles without mirth and continues bitterly. “It seems I let sentiment cloud my judgment once again.”

“What utter shit,” John huffs, his expression thunderous.

“It is my responsibility…” Sherlock tries to explain, but John cuts him off.

“Yeah, yeah, I know!” John snaps at him angrily. They share a tense gaze before John sets his jaw and steps back up into Sherlock’s personal space. He looks at the taller man with furious eyes. “Not a single one of them is going to hold you responsible and they certainly won’t want you to resign. You have a special bond, Sherlock. I’ve seen it,” his voice becomes more empathetic than angry. “You’re family and that’s not something you can break easily. They love you. And you love them. You are all stuck with each other for better or worse.”

Sherlock tilts his head, looking into John’s eyes as his own well with tears. He blinks twice quickly and two fall from one eye in rapid succession, followed by another from the other eye. John’s every word is so brilliantly true and Sherlock feels them all deep in his bones. Sentiment rushes over him and it isn’t just the love he and the ladies share, it is the pure love he feels for John too. John, who does understand him after all, who can see the team in a light that Sherlock was blind to, and whose devotion to them all is not only admirable, it is amazing. This realization is so overwhelming that Sherlock can barely keep his emotions in check. John, who knows him so well, hasn’t walked out or even gone to his room, in spite of the yelling and cursing Sherlock has heaped upon him. John Watson, his best friend, his voice of reason, his everything. How has such a man come to be in Sherlock’s life?

As if hearing his thoughts, John’s cups Sherlock’s face in his hands, his thumbs wiping the tears from his cheeks. He kisses his nose lightly as he whispers reassuring words and he is soon peppering Sherlock’s face with kisses - forehead, cheekbones, temples, even the small crinkle across the bridge of his nose. Sherlock’s arms come up around him, hands resting on John’s back. He turns his face into the kisses and just catches John’s lips with his own.

His senses are awash with John. His unique scent floods Sherlock’s nostrils. The texture of his shirt feels soft on fingers and palms. Every quiet noise and breath he makes echoes through Sherlock’s ears like a melody. The soft presses of his lips and the humidity of them parting are all warm exhilaration, sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine. He tips his tongue in to taste John’s and feels it move with his. They twirl them together languidly and explore one another.

Spurred on by Sherlock’s enthusiastic reciprocation, John opens his mouth more and tilts his head to the side, inviting Sherlock in with a sigh. The taller man angles down closer to John and deepens the kiss as fireworks explode behind his eyelids. He has never felt so happy, so complete as he does with John Watson.

Sherlock’s hands slide down to the small of John’s back and he pulls him close, pressing their bodies together tightly. John moans into Sherlock’s mouth and twines their tongues together with renewed vigor. His hands are buried in lush, brunette curls now and Sherlock’s scalp tingles with every touch of a fingertip. Sherlock loses himself to the sensation until their lips part, each gasping for breath. Inches apart, they pant in tandem. Short, shallow breaths mingling between them, curling around one another like tendrils of smoke, twisting until they join and disparate into the air all around.

Together as one forever.

Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat as the enormity of it surrounds him, not like a crashing wave, but a warm blanket. He loves John. Not just a little, but with all his heart. It’s crazy and ridiculous and stupid and absolutely wonderful.

_ Shit, Molls. I’ve never fallen this hard for anyone.  _

His own words echoing through his mind, Sherlock gives in to new dreams as they fill his mind palace. He wants to be by John’s side for the rest of his days, whether as a lover or friend, and they will be happy. They will be more than happy and maybe they will live together and Sherlock will give John all the love in his heart. It will be perfect. John might even realize one day that he loves Sherlock too. 

“Sherlock?” John asks in a gravelly tone, “are you all right? I never know where you are when you do that.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock laughs lightly. He must have been lost in his own mind longer than it seemed, given the tone of gentle amusement in John’s voice. It makes Sherlock feel warm and happy and safe. “I’m perfect.”

Much to Sherlock’s delight, the corners of John’s mouth turn up in a soft smile. Unyielding warmth and light spread through the mind palace and, indeed, Sherlock’s whole body. Images of the future, their future, fill his thoughts and Sherlock vows to do whatever he can to help John realize that he  **is** capable of love.

Sherlock pulls back a little, allowing some space between them so he can study John. He must plan his efforts carefully. John is in love with him, but doesn’t know and pushing the point will only push John away. No, John must come to this realization on his own, no matter how long it takes. Sherlock tilts his head and calculates as he looks at his doctor fondly. John is the person he has searched for ever since he was twelve and he and Molly made up what their husbands would be like. Even when Sherlock thought he had made his heart stop caring, it was still watching for John Watson. 

“It’s late,” Sherlock clears his throat and loosens his grip on John, “and I have a lot to do tomorrow before practice.”

“Right, right,” John lets his hands slide from Sherlock’s shoulders and down his arms. “I should get to bed too. Didn’t sleep a wink last night with the travel and Janine and Moriarty and all.”

John clears his throat and steps back, giving his nape an absent scratch. His other hand lands on his own hip and he continues speaking as he raises his brows.

“And I have a lot to do tomorrow too,” he looks disconcerted, like his To Do list just got longer. Whatever is on it, Sherlock intends to make sure John knows what number one will be.

“The first of which is informing Greg that you are  **not** resigning,” he prompts decisively, barely containing the joy that fills every inch of his being. 

“Yeah,” John smiles brilliantly. “Yeah, it is.”

Sherlock says nothing and only nods. He does not trust himself to speak. His heart has just burst in his chest for the joy he feels. Instead, he grins like an idiot with no thought as to how much of a love-sick teen he looks. It is all he can do to keep his knees from buckling. John Watson is his sun, his conductor of light, his Juliette. Wait. What? What the hell is he thinking?

“G’night, Sherlock,” John says from the door. Sherlock snaps out of his haze and resolves to find out how John can move so quietly.

“Yes, good night, John,” Sherlock replies softly. 

He is at the sink moments later with a plate and glass in his hands. Sherlock doesn’t remember picking them up or walking here. In fact, he still feels a bit like he’s flying, but does seem to be coming back down to earth. He places the dishes in the sink, flicks on the taps and reaches for the bottle of dish soap, squirting a little onto the scrubbing sponge.

John suddenly appears at his side with the other dishes as Sherlock scrubs sauce off the plate in his hands. Once the plate is clean, he places it in the drying rack and turns to face John. Without a word, he takes the dishes from John’s hands, their fingers brushing gently. There’s that annoying flip in his stomach again. Oddly enough, it doesn’t bother him much anymore. In a way, he almost likes it.

“You aren’t going to bed?” Sherlock murmurs, looking at those blue eyes. 

“Want help with the washing up?” John asks in answer to Sherlock’s question.

Sherlock hesitates as the fog in his head finally clears. He frowns at John and huffs quietly in frustration. Love seems to have either dropped his I.Q. a few points or decreased his cognitive abilities. Neither is acceptable and all is due to the man standing before him now. This charming and adorably sexy man in his kitchen.

“No,” Sherlock answers, a small smile playing at his lips in spite of himself. He can’t be angry about loving John. He was meant for him. Sherlock grins mischievously and turns back to the sink, placing the dishes in its basin and picking up the sponge again. 

“It’s no trouble,” John states in a light tone. 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock tells him, running water over the plate and scrubbing. “It won’t take long.”

“But Sherlock…” John protests, puffing out his chest.

“You made dinner,” Sherlock insists, his voice taking on a whining quality. “Look, I’m almost done. There’s no need.”

When John does not move or respond, Sherlock looks at him more carefully. He seems surprised and...disappointed?  _ Shit. _

“Oh, okay,” John mutters in a discouraged tone. He hangs his head in resignation as he turns to leave.

“John…” Sherlock begins, but John interrupts him.

“I’ll see you in the morning then,” John raises his head, but does not meet Sherlock’s eyes. He is about to speak again to stop John from leaving, a wet hand outstretched, but John is gone.

_ Shit. _

***

“He was asking to help with the dishes, but he really just wanted to spend more time with me and I just said no! And after that kiss…” Sherlock slaps a hand to his forehead as he speaks non-stop to his phone. Molly Hooper stares back at him from her bedroom where she had been sleeping before he called. “God, I’m such an idiot. What the hell was I thinking?”

As soon as he finished with the dishes, he snuck into the hall and stealthily slipped past John’s room. Once he had passed it, he ran straight to his own room and FaceTimed Molly. Her initial response had been cursing the late hour and that is all she has been able to say. Sherlock dove right in without taking a breath, or even saying hello and Molly hasn’t gotten a word edgewise.

“S’right. I’m sure he’s packing his bags right now,” she snarks and pushes her messy hair off her face.

“Molly!” Sherlock nearly shouts and then hushes himself, looking around his room and toward the door in hopes that John did not hear.

“What do you want me to say?” she laughs as Sherlock presses his lips into a tight frown and furrows his brow until he wears a proper pout. Molly takes in his expression and cocks a brow as she rolls her eyes. “Sherlock, I got to know John pretty well while I was in the hospital and I can tell you right now that you being an idiot will not send him packing.”

“It’s not that simple, Molly,” Sherlock insists in a hushed tone.

“He’s probably in his room laughing his ass off right now,” Molly ignores his pleas.

“It just hits me sometimes and it’s like my I.Q. drops a few points,” Sherlock is beginning to sound desperate, even to his own ears.

“Well, I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Molly finally acknowledges his words, looking at him with a serious gaze. He meets her eyes and they both start laughing.

“All right, no, it’s not that bad,” Sherlock tries to catch his breath. “It just seems like it. God, I can do really stupid things sometimes.”

“It’s called being in love,” Molly chuckles. “You’ve discovered a whole new world. Oh my god,” she looks at him with wide eyes and covers her mouth with her hand. Sherlock gives her a questioning frown. “It’s like a Disney movie,” she finishes before bursting out in hysterical laughter. Molly falls over backward onto her bed, dropping her phone as she goes so all Sherlock can see is her lavender bedspread.

“Molly. Molly!” he cries and then cringes, looking to the door again. When his eyes are back on the phone, he whispers urgently. “Molly!”

“Sorry! Sorry,” the image on Sherlock’s phone shakes furiously and then Molly’s face comes back into view. “I’m sorry.”

“Molly, this is serious,” Sherlock’s voice is agitated and he is hunched close to his phone.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Molly says again, still smiling but making a visible effort to become more serious again.

“This is different, Molls,” Sherlock huffs petulantly. “I loved Victor and never had this problem. Not once.”

“Ding, ding, ding! The genius can be taught!” Molly waves a hand in the air like she is ringing a bell and Sherlock tries to shush her boisterous declaration. “You’re absolutely right. It’s not the same in any way, shape or form.”

“Molly! Be serious!” Sherlock snaps in a hoarse whisper.

“Okay, okay,” she looks away with her eyes and takes a breath, collecting her thoughts before she continues. When her brown eyes find Sherlock again, they are most sincere. “Can you honestly tell me you felt this way about Victor? Ever?”

“No,” Sherlock doesn’t even have to think. There is only one answer.

“Exactly,” Molly replies solemnly. “True love is a powerful thing. It can make even the smartest people do stupid things. Cut yourself some slack. Wait, no,” she holds out a hand, realization dawning. “It’s not a Disney movie. What is it?”

“Molly,” Sherlock sighs.

“Oh my god!” she gasps and stares with wide eyes, her hand slapping the pillow sitting on the bed next to her. “It’s The Princess Bride!”

“Ah, god. That’s not the worst of it,” Sherlock bites his lip, his forehead wrinkling of its own volition. He is taken aback by the sudden silence in the room and turns his gaze to the phone to see Molly staring back with wide eyes. She leans in close, her face deadly serious once again.

“Sherlock,” her voice is just to the left of a scold, “what did you do?”

Sherlock jumps where he stands at the quiet knock on his door. His breath catches in his throat and he gapes at the door in horror. He opens and closes his mouth twice, unable to make a sound. 

“Sherlock,” Molly’s voice whispers, “what was that? What’s going on?”

“Sorry, Molls, gotta go,” he ends the call without even looking at the phone. Pressing his lips together and glancing to the left, the right, he inhales a fortifying breath and strides to the door. When he opens it, John is just raising his hand to knock again. The doctor stands frozen and wide-eyed before schooling his expression.

“Sorry. Sorry, I wasn’t sure you were here. I thought maybe the kitchen, but thought I’d check here first. Oh, shit. You weren’t asleep? Did I wake you?” John says it all in a steady stream, his hand still hovering in the air. The dramatic series of changes in John’s expression nearly set Sherlock to giggling.

“No,” he replies too quickly, trying to cover his mirth. “No, I wasn’t asleep. I was just…”  _ Reliving the portion of our evening where I rebuked your romantic efforts, not realizing what they were, of course, but that hardly helps, and telling Molly what an idiot I am. _ “Do you need something? An extra blanket or…”

“No, I don’t need anything. I’m fine,” John tips his chin down a bit and brings his raised hand to the nape of his neck. He puffs out an embarrassed breath and looks up at Sherlock.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock asks in his low baritone. He can see John shiver as he looks at him and takes a step closer. John swallows audibly.

“I know it’s late,” John begins, taking a shallow step into the room, drawing closer to the coach. The proximity makes Sherlock’s head swim with possibility and his hands suddenly tingle with the memory of touching John. Soft, warm skin under his fingertips only two nights ago and he wants it again. Now. Does John? His mind begs please, please, please.

“I know you want to confront Janine and tell the ladies about her role in the whole thing, but is that the best idea right now?” John says instead, his voice higher than usual and his brows raising with the suggestion.

“What?” Sherlock frowns, his brow knitting in confusion. That is not what he was hoping for. He shifts his weight and puts his hands on his hips, his brain unwilling to cooperate.

“Yeah, I know, but I was thinking…” John props his hand against the door frame. “Can I come in? I mean, this may not take long to explain, but if I could just come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Sherlock declares, stepping aside and ushering him in. “Please.”

“Thanks,” John passes through. Sherlock closes the door and gestures for John to follow him to the padded bench at the foot of his wide bed. John continues as they sit, looking a bit more comfortable. “This is going to sound a bit like a comedy routine at first, but there is a point.”

They both fold one leg in front of them so they are turned to face each other. Their knees touch when they are both settled and Sherlock’s stomach flips. The touch takes him right back to Baltimore. The warmth of John’s skin, his hot mouth on Sherlock’s body, and his eyes so full of love. Love. If only John could have seen it himself. If only he knew.

“If we tell Janine we know she’s in on it,” John’s voice has Sherlock tabling his thoughts and trying to concentrate on the issue at hand, “she’ll tell Moriarty and then he’ll know that we know he’s responsible.”

John stops to let it sink in. He watches Sherlock with an intense gaze and wets his lips before going on.

“His game plan will change if he doesn’t think she’s useful anymore. I don’t know exactly what that would mean, but it could put her in danger. Whatever she’s done, she doesn’t deserve that,” John finishes solemnly, leaning forward ever so slightly. Sherlock takes a minute or two to contemplate John’s words, pressing his lips together in thought.

“Agreed,” Sherlock says grimly.

“But that’s only the tip of the iceberg,” John nods. “If we tell the team about her, it not only increases the danger to her, it endangers all of them as well.”

“Because they will know it’s Moriarty,” Sherlock adds in a dubious tone. “They would have no proof of his direct involvement and it is unlikely he would take it to such an extreme level, but…”

He stops before the words come out. They taste like poison on his tongue and he winces as he completes the thought. “Janine would be an even larger liability that could be easily removed.”

“Exactly,” John searches his eyes with a hint of desperation in his own. “I know you feel responsible. You’re not, but I understand the desire to come clean. It’s very admirable.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Sherlock says quietly, straightening his spine.

“It is, but not right now,” John leans forward a fraction and inhales deeply, his eyes sharp and determined. “Listen to me, Sherlock. Think about this.”

Sherlock bites his lip and stares down at the dip in John’s skin that lives just between his clavicles. He rolls everything John has said around in his mind palace, closing his eyes to consider the logic of it. It is a difficult plan to dispute.

“We wait this out,” Sherlock gives a considered nod when he opens his eyes. “Keep everyone as safe as possible and deal with the consequences later.” He pauses to look at John gravely. “I cannot let any of them be harmed.”

“Won’t happen,” John takes Sherlock’s hands in his own and shakes his head. “Not on my watch. We will take this bastard down.”

God, Sherlock is full to bursting with love for this man. His hands are warm and hold Sherlock’s with such care, even as he pledges to thoroughly kick Moriarty’s ass. His eyes are so affectionate and calm, but reflect an undercurrent of unwavering strength. John Watson is a wonder. A man of fascinating dichotomies and it is absolutely delicious. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and tries to suppress a shiver as a feeling blooms in his chest and spreads through his body; every toe, the tip of every finger, the very tips of his ears. He squeezes John’s hands, the corners of his mouth turning up and his grey eyes sparkling. His lips part just slightly as the feeling wells inside of him. He wants to say something. He should say something, but every word that comes to mind seems inadequate. Still, he tries. Instead of something eloquent or even smart, he utters the most trite nonsense possible.

“Thank you.”

_ Thank you?? _

It’s all Sherlock can do not to face palm and it must show on his face because John cannot stifle a chuckle. Sherlock glares, but it does not last when the most dazzling smile takes over John’s features and he beams at Sherlock with the full light of the sun. His conductor of light.

“You’re welcome,” John says simply.

Overcome with emotion, Sherlock yanks his hands from John’s and lurches forward. In an instant, he is holding the doctor’s shoulders and pressing their lips together in a chaste but passionate kiss. John still wears the same smile when Sherlock pulls back.

“Okay. That’s settled then,” John laughs, gently shifting Sherlock’s hands from his shoulders and back to their laps. “We’d best get to sleep, yeah?”

“Right, and plan our next move against Moriarty tomorrow evening,” Sherlock says after a moment. “Yes, let’s order Chinese and meet in my office.”

“Perfect,” John rises from the bench. “I’ll see you in the morning then. Let’s drive together, shall we?”

“Fine,” Sherlock replies.

“Fine,” John smiles and starts to walk away.

“John!” Sherlock jumps up from the bench and splutters at John’s back. John stops immediately and turns to face him halfway to the door. 

Sherlock does not want him to go and it is completely irrational. He could play it off as being worried for John’s safety, but John would never believe it. Of course he might play along and not say anything. Sherlock could claim he is worried for his own safety, but that is even more stupid. John is only here now because of Sherlock’s conviction that Moriarty will not harm him. John would leave the condo in seconds if Sherlock said he was worried about himself. No. 

Sherlock has to make something up and now because he has been quiet for too long again. His eyes have not left John’s face and the doctor‘s brow has begun to furrow.

“Don’t go, please. I...I don’t want you to go,” Sherlock blurts.

Not what he was planning to say at all. He blinks once, taken aback by his own honesty. John looks surprised too, like he could see Sherlock’s every thought play out on his face and expected him to lie. Readying himself for John’s refusal, Sherlock clenches his jaw and straightens his spine. He shifts his gaze to one of indifference and simply waits for John to say no. John watches him with raised brows for a long, agonizing moment.

“Uh,” John finally says, one side of his mouth quirking up. “You want me to sleep...in your bed? With you?”

“Really, John, I would have thought that was rather obvious,” Sherlock rolls his eyes before he can stop himself.

“Yeah,” John smiles wide, his face open. “I guess it is.”

“Good,” Sherlock goes to a chest of drawers and grabs some pajamas from the second drawer. “I’ll just change.”

“Right,” John replies as Sherlock disappears into the en suite. 

Sherlock quickly uses the toilet and changes into long silk pajama pants with a Red Wings tee. It was part of a promotional partnership a few years ago. The two teams do not actually interact much and Sherlock might not have kept the shirt, but it is so soft and really the perfect thing to sleep in.

Sherlock starts humming as he brushes his teeth. He does not even realize he is doing it until he spits and melodically whispers the words to his own reflection in the mirror.

“But you’re here in my heart. So who can stop me if I decide that you’re my destiny?”

He swallows the chorus when he puts the toothbrush back in his mouth and continues to clean his teeth. He sways just a bit and hums through the rest of the song before he finally rinses his mouth and dries his lips with a hand towel. It has been at least twenty minutes and John has to be exhausted from the travel and stress. He has probably fallen asleep already left in the bedroom to his own devices. Sherlock feels a twinge of disappointment at the prospect, although he is not entirely sure why. While he has been anxious to see John since leaving Baltimore yesterday morning, he does not necessarily have expectations for this first night in his bed. Frankly, he is the happiest he’s been all day just because John said yes. True, sitting up with John and talking into the wee hours would be fantastic, a dream, but he would be just as happy watching John sleep in his arms. If that isn’t too creepy. Is that creepy?

Sherlock resolves to ask John about his feelings on observation during slumber as he steps out of the bathroom door. He expects to see John out cold on the bed, but John is not sleeping. He isn’t even on the bed. He is, in fact, sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed with a book in his hands. Sherlock approaches slowly, watching as John closes the book and hops to his feet. He lifts the book and sort of gestures with it, giving Sherlock a sheepish look.

“Sorry. I saw it on the night table,” John shrugs and offers it to the taller man. “I was curious.”

“And?” Sherlock cocks a brow.

“It’s good. I’d definitely like to finish it,” John replies.

“Well, it’s lucky you’re living with me, isn’t it?” Sherlock flashes a dashing smile and takes the book by its spine. John grins back.

“It is, yeah,” he answers.

Sherlock lets out a soft laugh, tilting his chin down to look at the cover of the book. The face of Dame Judy Dench gazes back at him. He laughs almost to himself and raises his eyes to John.

“I thought sure you would be asleep by now. You must be exhausted,” Sherlock tells him.

“Oh, I am,” John nods personably. He gestures toward the bed. “Which side do you sleep on? I didn’t like to impose.”

“I invited you,” Sherlock says in an even tone, trying not to sound too excited.

“Yeah, to share your bed not commandeer it,” John chuckles. Sherlock ducks his head at the sound that is music to his ears.

“You sleep on the left,” Sherlock states definitively. John huffs a laugh and rests his hands on his own hips where his pajama pants ride low. The dark blue t-shirt he wears hugs every curve and just a hint of skin peeks out from between it and his pants.

“Yeah,” John tilts his head to the side, a small smile on his face. He is adorable and so damn hot all at once. Sherlock’s mouth runs dry.

“Perfect,” he clears his throat. “I prefer the right.”

“Mm-hm,” John hums and then jokes. “I am far from perfect, Sherlock.”

“I know that, John. Trust me,” the coach winks and then continues, feigning seriousness. “We’re good together. In spite of our flaws, I mean.”

He takes a detour on his way to the bed to turn off the overhead light as John switches on one of the bedside lamps. When he reaches the right side of the king-sized bed, John is looking at him with a knowing smirk.

“You little shit,” John scolds.

Sherlock’s eyes sparkle and he does not respond. John inhales slowly and releases it, just as measured. The two men gaze at one another in silence. Watching, searching, understanding. It all washes over Sherlock like a wave and he feels free. He can only assume John feels it too based upon his serene expression and the glow of his eyes. 

“To bed?” John breaks the silence.

“To bed,” Sherlock answers.

They take one last look at each other across the bed, both wearing sheepish grins, and slip under the covers. Sherlock settles with his arms under the blankets while John’s are over the covers. John turns to look at Sherlock.

“Ready?” he asks with raised brows. He angles his head toward the lamp on his side. 

“You?” Sherlock asks as he nods.

John nods with a grin and they turn off the lamps. With only moonlight from the windows to light the room, Sherlock waits for his eyes to adjust. Even when they have, he just stares at the ceiling and does not look at the man in his bed while he screws up the courage to speak. He is being ridiculous. They have slept together in a bed before. There is no reason to be so nervous. He takes a fortifying breath.

“John?” he asks quietly into the dark room. John does not answer. Perhaps he is asleep, dozed off as soon as he closed his eyes.

“Yeah?” comes the doctor’s voice.

Maybe not.

“What are your thoughts on sleeping?” Sherlock says hesitantly.

“Well, I like sleeping and let’s face it, we all need it,” John reasons, sounding more and more sleepy.

“And observation?” Sherlock ventures hesitantly.

“What?” John’s voice is laced with confusion.

“While one is asleep,” Sherlock finishes. 

“You’ve lost me, Sherlock. But for the record, you can’t watch things while you’re asleep,” John laughs tiredly and gestures with one hand.

“No, not me. You,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, addressing John like he is an idiot. “Watching you!”

“Hang on,” John turns on his side to face Sherlock, propping up on one elbow. “Are you saying you want to watch me sleep?”

“No,” Sherlock says defensively, turning to face John. “Not all the time.” They are at least two feet apart, but Sherlock can still see him clearly by the moonlight. “Just...sometimes.”

Sherlock cringes. He sounds like a stalker. It is creepy. Wanting to watch John sleep is creepy and Sherlock is a complete weirdo. Although, John does not appear to be alarmed. In fact, he looks genuinely amused. Sherlock’s brow creases and he huffs indignantly.

“Never mind,” he mumbles.

“No, no, I won’t never mind,” John laughs while Sherlock harrumphs. “I think it’s cute.”

Sherlock glares even as John inches closer.

“I am not cute,” Sherlock snarls.

“And rather endearing,” John continues. 

Sherlock huffs in exasperation and looks away, but he can see John shimmy closer in the corner of his eye. A breath catches in his throat at the touch of John’s hand on his bicep, fingertips under his sleeve. His fingers are hot on Sherlock’s cool skin, smooth and calming. The touch spreads through and warms his whole body.

“You can watch me sleep anytime you want,” John whispers and the words send a shockwave up Sherlock’s spine. “As long as you promise to wake me if I start snoring.”

“All right,” Sherlock agrees with a snort. He meets John’s soft eyes. “I promise.”

John smiles in response and moves his hand to Sherlock’s chest. He exhales long and slow, perfectly content. In one fluid motion, Sherlock lifts his arm to encircle John’s torso and John rests his head on Sherlock’s pectoral. Sherlock wishes he had not put a shirt on at all so he could feel John’s cheek against his bare skin. They both sigh at once.

“G’night, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddamn if they aren’t the sweetest boys in all the world.
> 
> Personally, I love the way this one starts. Sherlock’s stunned in the bathroom thinking, “I told John I love him. I told John I love him.” and then immediately segues into “John loves me. John loves me.” But forever the problem, John doesn’t know it yet. C’est la vie. ... My ass. When is John going to figure it out? Come on, man! Those tingly, weird feelings you’re feeling are love. Love. Get with the program. 
> 
> Fear not, friends, he’ll get there. Even-tu-ally. Haha. You know it won't happen so easily. That is simply not the way I work. Do not doubt that I am still the Mistress of Villainy. Mwahahahaha!
> 
> And now what you've all been waiting for...  
> 1) Now that they know and Moriarty doesn't know they know, nor does Janine know that they know, but THEY know that they know - Who's on first again? What's on second and I don't know who's on third.😉 - what will they do next?  
> 2) What will Sherlock dream up during their evening planning session and will it work or fail spectacularly?  
> 3) What's Moriarty up to at this point? He must know John went home with Sherlock and that smacks of no resignation.  
> 4) Who's next on Moriarty's hit list? Can John and Sherlock foil his plans, or is one of them next?  
> 5) For the love of god, is John ever going to realize he's in love with Sherlock or am I just stringing you all along? 😈
> 
> As always, these questions only touch the surface of all you could be asking. Feel free to put voice to more. I'm all ears. In the meantime, please be patient with me for the next chapter. I promise I’ll get things back on schedule. Thank you all so much for your love and support. I love each one of you and you all being joy to my heart. I'm so glad to have the opportunity to continue sharing this with you.  
> I’ll see you soon. Jane


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things happen in much the way they do for all of us.  
> They wake up.  
> They go to work.  
> Shit goes sideways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends! It is a beautiful Sunday and I am back on schedule. Let’s hope it stays that way. Lol. I just want to give a shout out to my wonderful beta, MyBreadAndButter. She, and all of you, challenge me to be better and keep going. Thanks and I love you all.
> 
> So, when we last left our boys they were snuggling and cute in Sherlock’s bed. Awwww. Prior to this bliss, however, John had resigned verbally to Greg and tried to do the same with Sherlock, but the stubborn coach would have none of it. John was soon confessing all that had happened in Baltimore after the team had left. They went home and began to hash out a strategy.
> 
> So what’s in store for them now? We shall see... ALSO, mind the rating and tag changes.

_ In your eyes...the light, the heat in your eyes. I am complete in your eyes... _

_ Love, I don't like to see so much pain. So much wasted and this moment keeps slipping away. _

_ I get so tired of working so hard for our survival. I look to the time with you to keep me awake and alive.  _

_ In your eyes. _

_ \--Peter Gabriel, In Your Eyes _

John opens his eyes just before the alarm clock goes off. Soft sunlight peeks into the room through the blinds. Apparently the forecast for rain did not apply to the morning, or at all. Honestly, if he could have been wrong as often as meteorologists are, medical school would have been a hell of a lot easier. 

Stretching his legs and arching his back, John pulls his arms free from the covers to stretch them. To his surprise, his efforts are met with some resistance. A long, pale arm tightens around his waist and plush lips nuzzle close to the nape of his neck. Sherlock. He slept all night with the lanky coach and he couldn’t be happier. John traces a fingertip along that firm arm, relishing in the smooth, warm skin. Guess he didn’t take the time to notice the small details in Baltimore. What else had he missed?

Curiosity peaked, John wiggles around carefully under Sherlock’s arm until he has turned to face him completely. He watches Sherlock a moment for signs of wakefulness, but sees none. Sherlock looks so open and peaceful, not a thought of strategy or skates or the ladies or the danger they may be in. He looks so young and innocent. John’s eyes take in every feature in stunning detail. The tousled, dark brown curls he wants to tangle in his fingers and those high, prominent cheekbones he wants to run his fingertips over. The gorgeous cupid’s bow he wants to nibble on, soft against his own lips. His eyes slide down that long column of neck next and god, how he wants to bury his face in the crook of it. Running his lips along that beautiful neck and down into just under the neckline of Sherlock’s tee sounds like absolutely the best way to spend the morning. Unfortunately, they set the alarm clock for a reason.

Straightening up, John gently blows a puff of air into Sherlock’s sleeping face. The man flinches and opens those adoring lips, licking quickly at them before closing again. He moves a bit and snuggles deeper into his pillow. John’s brows raise to his hairline, mouth stretching into an affectionate smile because it is absolutely the cutest thing he has ever seen. Not that he would say it out loud in Sherlock’s presence, or maybe he would. John ducks his head and stifles a laugh.

Still watching Sherlock, the discussion right before he fell asleep comes to the front of his mind and this time he cannot stop the quiet laugh from sounding. Sherlock was so shy, so tentative when he asked John if he could watch him sleep. It was the second time John had had such a conversation, oddly enough, but it wasn’t awkward at all with Sherlock. A girlfriend had asked him when they were in uni together and it came off as desperate and, not to put too fine a point on it, weird. It was just so endearing when Sherlock asked. God, everything is so different with Sherlock.

Girlfriends had told John they loved him in the past and it usually meant it was time to end it. Sherlock said it almost before things had a chance to begin and it only made John want him more. He wants to be with Sherlock more. He wants forever with Sherlock and he has never felt that way about anyone in his life. He had pretty much subscribed to the philosophy Bill had once described. It was the path Bill’s relationships always took. He would start something and then take it to another level, and another, until it became absolutely necessary for him to leave. They had laughed about it at the time, but looking back on it, John believed Bill was unhappy with it. Had John always been unhappy with it too? He certainly never had so noble a reason as Bill’s justification. Bill never once said it, but he did it because he didn’t want anyone to suffer if he didn’t come back from a tour of duty. Funny thing was, it didn’t really keep it from happening. He left John behind with scars so deep that he never questioned keeping people at arm’s length, until now.

John lifts a hand and smooths down Sherlock’s curls. He gazes at him with soft eyes that suddenly border on wet. This man has given himself so completely and willingly and John’s heart aches with the enormity of it. John sniffs quietly and brushes his fingers into those lush curls a second time as Sherlock stirs. He smiles then and his stomach flips. He pulls his hand away and freezes, his entire body going tense. What the fuck was that?

“Morning,” comes a low voice, deep with sleep. John looks into those soft grey eyes and feels his muscles relax. The corners of his mouth tease up.

“Good morning,” John breathes. “You slept well, I see.”

“I did,” Sherlock’s drowsy eyes sparkle. “I can only think of one other night like it. Must be your influence.”

John ducks his head, knowing exactly which night Sherlock is referring to. His stomach flips again. Seriously, what the hell is that? Pushing it from his mind, John raises his chin and looks at Sherlock fondly. He bites his lower lip and can feel his cheeks coloring. He has no idea how to respond to that.

“Your alarm went off,” he tries for casual, but his voice sounds a fraction higher than usual. “We need to get moving.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock replies, puffing out a breath with regret on his features. He touches John’s cheek, his baritone softening. “For the record, I’d love nothing more than lingering here with you.” 

He leans in and kisses John tenderly. Every nerve ending in John’s body tingles and pulses, sending currents of electricity sparking through every limb. It feels so good and yet, has an edge to it that is almost uncomfortable. John has no doubt in his mind that Sherlock could quell it if given the time. 

As the kiss draws to an end, Sherlock traces his tongue around John’s lower lip and a sensation almost like a tickle starts at the base of John’s spine. He fights to keep his body still, but finally lets his back arch. Their bodies press together a moment, one perfect moment. John’s mind goes blank until Sherlock breaks away and whispers:

“You want the shower first?”

“Oh,” John blinks. “I thought I’d just go back to my own.”

Sherlock’s forehead crinkles and he raises his head off the pillow to look at John in confusion.

“I mean, it makes sense to shower at the same time, yeah?” John splutters. “Saves time.”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers evenly. “Yes, of course.”

There is an awkward pause before Sherlock sits up and turns a cheeky smile toward John. 

“We’d better get a move-on then,” his tone is light as he hops out of bed and heads for the loo.

***

John stands in the spray of his over-sized shower with his hands resting on the wall in front of him, his body leaning toward it. His head is down and directly in the water. It taps out a rhythm on his back and streams down his cheeks to his chin and neck. It courses along skin and muscle until it reaches the tiled floor and pours into the drain. John opens his mouth to take a breath and sighs. He really is an idiot. He had not realized at the time, but looking back on it, Sherlock clearly wanted and invited John to use his shower. John is more than happy to comply now. The idea of Sherlock in the next room while John stands naked under a spray of water, the hint of possibility that Sherlock could come in with him is more than enough for a fucking fantastic wank. He is getting hard right now just thinking about it, so why did he refuse Sherlock’s offer? Because he wasn’t expecting it...because he’s an idiot.  _ I thought I‘d just go back to my own. Jesus Christ.  _ The delight had drained right off Sherlock’s face in the span of a blink. John shakes his head slowly. God.

A shiver works its way up John’s spine as a slight chill breezes over his back. He turns up the water temperature, thinking himself in need of more steam. Placing his left hand back on the shower wall, he turns his head to the side and closes his eyes. He is about to continue berating himself when he hears the click of the shower door closing. 

John’s eyes snap open and he spins on his heel in what he hopes looks ready to take down the attacker or go down trying. However, instead of throwing himself at the interloper, John freezes to the spot, water streaming down his body and his erection jutting out proudly. The figure standing before him is none other than Sherlock Holmes. A very naked Sherlock Holmes, his body covered with hundreds of water droplets that look like shimmering crystals smattered over his skin. He is beautiful. Every glorious inch of him. It is far more of his body than John saw or even imagined in Baltimore. Oh, and his cock. John’s tongue runs over his top lip, desire plain on his face. Sherlock is just as interested in the proceedings as John is, the shine of precome leaking from his erection. Or is it the water? Does it even matter? John wants to lick it off, whatever it is and nuzzle his nose into the space between it and Sherlock’s thigh.

“I see we have the same thought in mind,” comes that velveteen baritone, low and sexy. It is criminal.

“What?” John’s voice is hoarse, his face slack.

“I am not the gentleman you are, John,” Sherlock cocks a brow, one corner of his mouth curling up, “so I will impose upon you.”

“Oh, fuck,” John breathes. It is all he can think to say, or not think, as the case may be. The other corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up and his eyes are playful, but dark with intent. John swallows down his stupidity and continues more articulately, even if not breathlessly. “You are never an imposition.”

A pink tinge rises in Sherlock’s cheeks to combine with the flush of his arousal and his eyes darken, irises giving way to pupils. His body veritably shimmers with the droplets of water that bounce off of John’s and come to rest on long arms and broad shoulders, smooth chest and defined hips.

“God, you’re beautiful,” John utters, still breathless. “You’re so beautiful.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Sherlock remarks, taking a step closer. He reaches a hand and rests it on John’s hip. Sparks jet from where their skin meets right to John’s heart. His knees nearly buckle with the force of it.

“Oh my god,” John moans, blinking slowly and looking at Sherlock with heat in his gaze. “You can kiss me anytime you like, you know.”

Sherlock’s hand is on his other hip, pulling him close. John’s arms wrap around Sherlock’s body, his fingers digging into the flesh of the taller man’s back. Their lips crash together in a searing kiss, wet and hot. Their tongues explore, lips nipping and moving. Their hands roam everywhere. John’s settle on Sherlock’s plush ass and squeeze hard. Sherlock grabs the back of John’s head and tugs just a bit on his short hair. John cannot help the moan that slides from his lips when Sherlock eases his head back and licks a stripe up his stretched neck. He licks and kisses his way along John’s jawline and then down his neck again to nibble on his collarbone. John jerks his hips and drags Sherlock to his own body as he thrusts forward. Both men curse when their cocks rub together.

“Shit,” Sherlock rasps as he mouths at John’s neck, his hands gliding down John’s back. The water sprays on and over John’s shoulders, drenching them both. John has no idea how Sherlock’s face isn’t soaked, being that it is right in the line of fire, but John isn’t about to put any thought into it just now.

John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s plush, round cheeks and rocks against him in a slow, luscious rhythm. He knows he should stop after only a minute or two. It will all be over too quickly, if he doesn’t, but god, he doesn’t want to. He never wants to stop. Sherlock must agree because he thrusts into John, tipping his head with the effort and exposing a long column of pale neck that John cannot resist. The doctor growls and sucks and kisses and nips. He pauses just a moment and bites. Not hard, but enough to make Sherlock gasp and buck his hips. John nearly loses it all at the noise Sherlock makes.

“I want you so much,” Sherlock groans, panting and nipping at John’s ear. “I want you, John. You’re so beautiful. Can I... Can I put my mouth on you, please?”

“Oh god, yes,” is John’s reply. He places his hands on the man’s shoulders as he watches Sherlock drop to his knees. Sherlock never takes his eyes off John’s and, for a split second, John cannot believe this is happening. His lips part as if to speak, but he loses all train of thought when that perfect cupid’s bow wraps around his erection.

“Fuck,” John moans helplessly and nearly loses his footing, putting a hand on either side of the shower to keep himself steady. 

Sherlock curls his tongue around John’s shaft and flicks it playfully over the slit. John bites off a cry and holds onto the walls. Sherlock’s lips turn up as he continues on the head of John’s penis, licking and sucking, alternating one for the other. His right hand is wrapped around the base and he throws in a stroke or two when the mood strikes. John knows he should be ashamed of the noises he is making and the foul language flowing from his lips, but he isn’t. Not in the slightest. 

“Good, goddamn yes, Sherlock. Suck me. Your mouth is...perfect. You’re so fucking perfect,” John has never sounded more inarticulate as he rambles on. The pleasure and his arousal spiking, he could not stop the flow of words if he wanted to. “God, yes, like that. God, I want you. Want you on the bed and looking in my eyes when I fuck you.”

Sherlock’s lips tighten around his cock at the final words and John’s mind bursts in white light, tight heat and stroking tongue. The only thoughts in his mind that do not pertain to pleasure are that Sherlock loves him, Sherlock wants him and that knowledge makes it all even more amazing. John drops every stitch of defense and allows Sherlock to see everything, every part of him. John trusts him so completely, so incredibly and he has never felt this way about anyone before. Instead of distracting John, his thoughts increase his pleasure tenfold and John has no idea how he is going to make it through this.

“God. Oh, god,” John gasps when Sherlock takes him further in his mouth and begins bobbing his head. John’s hands drop to the wet curls matted on Sherlock’s head and grip gently, not pulling or moving his head, just holding it, guiding it. God, oh god, how he wants to snap his hips fast and hard, fucking that gorgeous mouth until he comes down Sherlock’s throat, but he won’t. He can’t do it. Not when Sherlock is so delighted to be in control and John wouldn’t dream of taking that from him.

John closes his eyes tightly. He cannot watch himself slip in and out of Sherlock’s mouth for another second or it will all be over too soon and he wants it to last. He wants it to last for so long. He is suddenly overcome with the desire to treasure Sherlock, worship Sherlock, hold Sherlock. He wants to give Sherlock all he can to make him happy, to give Sherlock everything and every part of himself. Is that even okay? Is it some kind of dependency or obsession? Is it even healthy?

John shakes his head, dispelling the thoughts. He’s doing it again. He’s trying to talk himself out of truly giving himself to someone. He was never sure about anyone he had been with in the past, but Sherlock is different. John does not need to protect himself from Sherlock.

Sherlock...Sherlock..wants to make it so good for him. Jesus, so good. 

John opens his eyes and gives Sherlock’s head a reverent stroke, soft and affectionate. Sherlock answers with long fingers trailing up the delicate skin of John’s inner thigh. John’s eyes pop open wide with the liquid silk feeling of two wet fingertips pressing lightly against his puckered hole.

“Fuck, Sherlock!” he all but screams.

John is completely undone. The hot pleasure that had coiled low in his belly, radiates into his groin and thighs and chest. Every muscle in his body tight as ripcord and snapping with his release. A string of obscenity flows from his lips as he comes hard. Once, twice, three times and somehow Sherlock swallows it down each time. 

“Sher...Sherlock,” John pants, trying to catch his breath. “I’m sorry. Should’ve warned you, but came so..so fast. I didn’t expect it.”

“Shh,” Sherlock shushes him and John’s knees go weak at the sound. He raises his hands quickly to brace himself between the shower walls once again. He tips his head down to look at Sherlock, but the sparkle of stars cloud his vision. 

“Christ,” John whispers and it’s all he can say.

Sherlock smiles up at him softly, kissing and caressing John’s thighs as he comes down from the orgasm. Sherlock’s beautiful face comes into view as the stars begin to fade and John slowly reaches down for his lover. His lover? He reaches for Sherlock’s hands, bending down to kiss them each in turn. Without a thought, John’s knees bend and he slides to the floor in front of Sherlock, water sprinkling over them like rain. He looks up from those wonderful hands into glistening grey eyes that shine like silver with love and his heart clenches. And releases? John doesn’t know what it means, but he does know one thing. He wants to be with Sherlock Holmes as long as he will have him, as long as he lives with no secrets and no holding back.

“Sherlock,” John says in a hushed voice, moisture pricking his eyes, “that was...I can’t…”

“You don’t need to,” Sherlock turns his hands to envelope John’s. “I know.” 

“God,” the doctor closes the gap and kisses him gently, pouring all he can into it before their lips part and he rests his forehead against the taller man’s. “I want you... I want you to come inside me.”

His heart stutters and sinks when he feels Sherlock’s head begin to shake. The two separate to look at one another, John trying desperately to keep the hurt from his face. He is not sure how successful he is when Sherlock squeezes his hands and replies in a soft voice.

“No. Not now. I do want that, John, but not until…” Sherlock stops himself and watches John carefully, searching his eyes. He must see the hurt and something else too because his expression softens even more and he tilts his head. “This isn’t a rejection, John.”

“Yeah, well, it feels like one,” John mutters, dropping his head and looking at the tiled floor. Water runs around their knees toward the drain. John does not speak again and just watches the flowing water, struggling to find anything to distract from the pain of Sherlock’s words.

“It’s not,” Sherlock repeats, lifting John’s chin with two fingers so their eyes meet. “It’s a promise. It will happen. When we’re both ready.”

“Of course,” John sighs in understanding. He may be disappointed, but he would never dream of persuading Sherlock to do anything he is not ready to do. ”I won’t pressure you. I…”

John looks at Sherlock for a long time. Not for the first time, he has no idea how to finish his sentence. He feels something for Sherlock deep within his soul and no word in his vocabulary seems sufficient. As if he can read John’s every thought and understands completely, Sherlock smiles affectionately and begins to rise. 

“Wait,” John’s voice is urgent. He grabs onto Sherlock’s hands to stop him. “What about you? I mean, I haven’t done anything for you.”

“Next time,” Sherlock says with a laugh in his tone. ”I’m fine.”

He pulls John to his feet and holds his hands down at their sides. He twines their fingers together as he speaks. 

“Let’s wash up and get to work,” he smirks and cocks a brow. “You can lather me up and if that leads to something, so be it.”

A wide grin spreads across John’s face and he pecks those sweet, sassy lips.

“It would be my pleasure.”

***

John had indeed put his mouth on Sherlock after a rather thorough scrub renewed his interest. It was amazing, simply amazing. Sherlock’s vision had whited out, only the outlines of starbursts visible. John had moved up to nibble on his ear by the time Sherlock came back to himself. He was loathe not to drag John to the bedroom and start all over, but time was short and they were due at the stadium. So they resisted temptation, showered for real, ate a quick bite and headed to work.

Since then, Sherlock had joined the ladies briefly for workouts and then straight to a meeting with John and Greg concerning Janine and Molly’s medical status. John had arrived at Greg’s office early to withdraw his resignation and the three of them had discussed the latest developments in the case before parting ways. Sherlock rushed back to the ladies for some footwork and then ran out to meet Molly for lunch, whereupon he told her what happened after he hung up on her the night before. He did not tell her about the morning, but the sly look in her eye told him that she could probably see it all on his face. 

Sherlock had spent the afternoon on the track with the ladies. Gliding around the track, outlining and practicing new strategies, had been ridiculously cathartic. He had not realized how tense he had been with John alone in Baltimore. The news of his resignation upon his return and the argument that followed had not helped. He had told Molly about that at lunch as well and immediately sworn her to secrecy.

“My god,” Molly had gaped at him. “James Moriarty is the most deplorable creature on the face of the earth.”

“I will never disagree with that assertion,” Sherlock had said wryly.

“If he lays a hand on you, he won’t just have John to deal with,” Molly mumbled in a low growl.

Sherlock looked up from his sandwich to look at her. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around her water glass, knuckles white. Her eyes were narrowed, but he could still see the dark death glare. He watched a moment as she stared past him, grinding her teeth. Molly did not often have the opportunity to show her protective side, but she was truly a force to be reckoned with when she did.

Sherlock had replaced the sandwich onto his plate and reached for her hand, bringing her from her thoughts of vengeance as he pulled the glass from her fingers. Her brow had furrowed in confusion and she watched silently as he set the glass on the table.

“You would have broken it otherwise,” he explained very seriously, but without keeping the smirk off his face. Molly smiled almost immediately.

“You’re probably right,” she laughed, “and I want to save it all for Moriarty.”

He chuckled with her, but they had both stopped quickly. He knew what she was thinking because he was thinking the exact same. If anything ever happened to her he could not be held responsible for his actions, and he already owed Moriarty a swift punch at the very least. The only thing keeping him from it was that he had not been anywhere near the man since Molly’s injury, nor had she. If they did see the filthy rat off the track anytime soon, he and Molly would have to race each other to see who made it to the bastard first.

“And then there’s John,” Molly had said.

“What?” Sherlock’s forehead crinkled, his expression somewhere between perplexed and angry.

“He was willing to give up everything for you. It wouldn’t surprise me if he still does if the shit really hits the fan,” Molly told him with a note of pride in her voice.

“Molly..” there was a tone of warning in the word. Sherlock knew what her next words would be. He always knew when she had that soulful, all-knowing look in her eyes. It was nothing he had not thought of himself, but Sherlock wasn’t sure he was ready to hear it out loud.

“He loves you,” she had stated without hesitation, paying no mind to his warning.

“I know,” Sherlock replied quietly. They looked at one another a long time before Molly put her hand on his.

“Then what’s the trouble?” she asked with concern. “I can see it’s something.”

“He doesn’t know, Molls,” Sherlock shrugged. “He has no idea and he may never figure it out. I can see it. I can see it on his face, but he’s just so confused about it. He knows what he feels, but doesn’t know it’s love.”

“I could talk to him,” Molly suggested carefully. “Help him see what it is.”

“No, please don’t,” Sherlock had sighed. “You can’t tell someone they’re in love with your best friend.”

“Yeah,” Molly leaned back in her chair in resignation, “I ‘spose you’re right.”

“I appreciate the offer though,” Sherlock smiled kindly, leaning back in his own chair.

“ **You** could talk to him,” Molly’s tone was light, but her stare was pointed.

“You also can’t tell someone they love you,” Sherlock had said ruefully before bringing his own water glass to his lips.

Sherlock sighs heavily at the bittersweet memories of his lunch with Molly. He lifts his eyes to look around the track at all the ladies giving their all in the day’s practice. He finds Molly walking the center of the track, encouraging her teammates as they skate around her. Sally raises her voice to join Molly from her position as rear-facing blocker. They are by far the best co-captains in the league. Sally was only just appointed and approved shortly before Anderson was exposed, something he had used against her. She had wanted to resign as soon as her secret was out, but Sherlock would not accept it. At that time, he and the rest of the team saw more in her than she did in herself. Since then, she has truly grown into the role. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up at the memory.

“Coach!” Sally’s voice cuts through his thoughts and he puts his full focus on her. “You wanna try to get through this wall?”

The quirk grows into a full-blown grin. They have spent the last thirty minutes practicing a new theory to blocking and, while they have not perfected it, the ladies picked it up rather quickly.

“Love to,” Sherlock replies, skating from his position at the side of the floor.

He positions himself roughly half the track from the group of four, poised to launch from the spot. Turning his head to meet Sally’s eyes, he gives a slight nod and she returns the gesture. He takes off like a bolt of lightning and is around the track in seconds. All the while Sally calls out updates on his movements and readies Hella, The Woman and HardOn for his attack.

“Careful, careful,” Molly adds in a loud voice. “He likes to come from the left.”

And sure enough, he does. His change in path is so quick that it is too late for the group of women to shift with him and he slams into HardOn at full force, but she does not go down. The rest of the wall supports her against the onslaught. Sherlock’s legs pump as he continues to push his body into her, looking to twist and scramble around her. Getting nowhere, Sherlock spins around HardOn and Hella’s backs and lurches forward. 

“Right, right, right!” Sally shouts and they shift just in time, but Sherlock is ready. He whips to the left and just makes it around HardOn, but The Woman picks him up. Her lithe body seems unsuited to blocking at first glance, but Sherlock knows appearances are deceiving. The same strong muscles and sharp lines that crack through blockers when she jams, block out Sherlock now. Before he can overpower her, the others are there. 

Sally shifts from her position to throw her hip against Sherlock, trapping him in between herself and The Woman. The triangle Sally, Hella and HardOn form shifts so Hella faces Sherlock now. He spins again only to collide with HardOn’s hips and shoulder to Hella’s cries of ‘Right, right, Harry!’ Sherlock presses hard against HardOn’s back, his face mere inches from Hella’s. His legs continue to pump fiercely as he tries to break through, knowing he is running short on time. He twists at the last minute and nearly slips by, but Sally is there with The Woman on her flank and Sherlock is suddenly on his ass just as Witch Hazel blows the whistle and ends the jam at its two minute maximum.

Just like that, everyone on the track is all smiles and Sally is offering her hand to Sherlock. He laughs and takes it, jumping to his feet to face her. She claps him on the back and squeezes his hand tightly before releasing it.

“I had my doubts, but this plan is one of your best,” Sally beams. “No one will get through once it’s perfect!”

“Finals, here we come!” HardOn shouts, wrapping her arms around Sherlock’s waist. She cannot lift him when they are on skates, but still swings him around her body in a circle before he can break free from her hold.

“Jesus Christ, HardOn,” is all Sherlock gets out before Hella grabs Harry’s shoulder and meets her eyes.

“There are a lot of bouts between here and the finals, love,” Hella laughs fondly and winks. 

“You doubt us?” Harry asks theatrically in mock dismay.

“ ‘Course not,” Hella states matter of factly, “but I know how you get. Just hafta tone things down a bit.”

Harry crosses her arms and gives Hella a stern look that does not last. In the next moment, Hella is in her arms and off her skates for a half turn and a peck on the lips.

“Where’s mine?” The Woman jokes in a petulant tone, eyeing them with her sultry refinement. “I believe I played a part in this victory.”

The two skaters instantly envelope her, smacking purposefully wet lips on her cheeks and lips until HardOn licks a stripe from her sharp jawline to her temple. They are surrounded by laughs and hoots as the rest of the team has joined them on the track.

“Happy now?” HardOn asks with a smug smile as The Woman wipes at her own wet face.

“Well, I did ask for it,” she shrugs much to everyone’s laughter.

When the din dies down, Sherlock raises a hand for attention and things take on a serious tone again.

“This is an excellent demonstration of what I mean,” he begins, every eye on him in an instant. “Don’t just anticipate what your opponent will do, know it. Watch for the tells, the minuscule movements and twitches. They are always there and aren’t hard to find if you know what you’re looking for.”

He turns in a circle as he speaks, making eye contact with every skater.

“You wonder how I read people in a glance? This is how it begins. We master this and we can beat anyone put up against us,” Sherlock pauses when the skaters start to nod and whisper quiet words of affirmation. “Now, I know time is out today, but we can stay another thirty minutes or so to work on this and then hit it hard again tomorrow. It’s up to all of you. I’m game if you are.”

“We’re in,” Hazel says without hesitation. Every woman encircling him is nodding, the spark of excitement in her eyes.

An overwhelming feeling of pride passes over Sherlock, so strong that his knees almost buckle. They are united in a way they have not been before. They have always been a good team, working together, believing in one another. Sherlock would accept nothing less because the old cliche is true; They can only be as strong as their weakest member. That is why they hold each other up and help one another to improve. He has never felt that dedication from them more than he does right now.

But...something’s wrong.

“Right. Let’s get on it,” Sherlock points as he speaks. “Four groups at ten, two, four and eight o’clock. Four blockers and one jammer each. Rotate at the whistle. We’ll do it for thirty minutes and hit the showers. Tomorrow we work out from seven to ten. We’ll be in the classroom from ten to noon and then normal track time in the afternoon.”

“Coach?” Mary asks with an inquisitive expression on her face and Sherlock nods to acknowledge her unasked question.

“What I need to teach can’t all be done on the track. It’s not just seeing the physical ques. It’s a way of thinking,” Sherlock scans the group and sees nothing but determination and strength. “Right. Let’s go.”

The ladies scatter, dividing themselves into groups around the track while Sherlock and Molly remain in its center. She hands him a whistle and he blows the start of the first rotation. Molly walks to the nearest group and begins commenting loudly; encouragement, advice and the like. Sherlock heads for another group to do the same, but slows to near stop before getting far. Something is wrong. There is derision in their ranks. He can feel it, hovering in the air above their unity. His eyes slowly shift back and forth over the track as they narrow, his forehead crinkling. The feeling is there, mocking him as he searches for its source.

He knows in an instant. Janine is not the only one. Someone else is working with Moriarty. He wants to learn Sherlock’s secrets, his tactics and another woman around the track right now is helping him do just that.

Sherlock schools his expression to one he often wears while watching drills. No one can know what he is doing. They cannot know he is doing exactly what he promised his team and himself he would never do. He is reading them. One by one, he sees it all. Things each is hiding; hopes, fears, loves. He largely ignores what he finds, guilt welling up in his chest and threatening to burst forth, and suddenly there it is.

Sherlock knows who it is and his mind whirls into action.

***

Sherlock is pacing a trench in his office floor now. John is twenty minutes late. His eyes dart to the clock. Twenty-one minutes late. He sighs loudly and tells himself he is being ridiculous. True, John is very prompt and Sherlock has not known him to be late for anything, but it doesn’t mean something has happened. John is in the stadium, after all, and it’s safe. He has just been delayed.

_ He would have called. _

Sherlock stops walking and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the niggling voice in the back of his mind and failing. John would have called. Unless he was with a patient, but surely he would have finished by now and none of the ladies had complained of aches or pains. Even if he iced any joints, optimal time span is twenty minutes and practice ended over an hour ago.

Unable to stop himself, Sherlock strides to his desk and picks up his cell. He presses speed dial and waits, listening to the rings. After the third, something unexpected happens: John answers.

“Hi, Sherlock,” his voice sounds uneasy and angry, but he is trying to hide both. No, he is only trying to disguise the uneasiness.

“You’re late,” Sherlock says by way of greeting, keeping all trace of concern from his voice and trying to glean all he can from John’s.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” John replies curtly. “Something came up.”

“Oh? Anything I need to know about?” Sherlock’s tone lifts in question. He gnaws on his lip as he listens to John’s answer.

“No,” John says flatly. “It’s fine.”

There is a long pause. Neither of them speak, but Sherlock listens intently and locks it all away in his mind palace for further examination. He tries to pick out any sounds from the background to analyze for other voices whispering instructions or noises that could be weapons used to force John to say certain things. However, John himself keeps getting in the way. He is breathing strangely in short and long puffs and inhalations. Sherlock scowls and tries to blot out the distraction, but cannot do away with it entirely. He shakes his head and then angles it to press the phone closer to his ear, every ounce of concentration on capturing all the information he possibly can, which is not a lot. One thing is for certain though, John is not alone and he does not want to be in the current company. That can mean only one thing.

“Still need a ride tonight?” Sherlock breaks the silence, already knowing the answer.

“No,” John’s tone is final and Sherlock’s heart stutters as it drops, a heavy weight settling in his stomach. “I caught a cab here. I’ll just get another.”

“All right. I’ll see you later then,” Sherlock’s mind races. He wants to keep John on the line. John is with Moriarty. He has been coerced into leaving the stadium or outright taken and Sherlock has no idea where he is at this point. He has not learned enough from what he has heard. He has to know,  **needs** to know more. How can he keep John talking without raising suspicion? Sherlock’s mind scrambles for ideas, but all he can do is listen to John’s distinctively nervous breathing.

“Right,” the puffing stops with his words and John’s voice is clipped. God, Sherlock can tell John wants to say so much more than he can. “See you later,” is all he says before ending the call.

Sherlock simply stares straight ahead for a handful of seconds and then closes his fingers around his phone, holding both fists to his forehead. Bowing his head, he closes his eyes and goes back. He opens the door in his mind palace that holds the conversation and listens. Every nuance in John’s voice, every sound. John was furious and yet, worried. For himself? Or Sherlock. Perhaps one of Moriarty’s minions is still in the stadium with the intention of dealing with Sherlock.

He ignores that thought, having more pressing things to address. Sherlock goes back again and moves past John’s voice to listen to the background noises. Rough breathing that was not John’s, but very close to the phone. The rustle of fabric identical to John’s jacket. Sherlock’s hand brushed against it only this morning as they left his condo and he heard it again now, like someone held fast to John while he was on the phone. Moran. Obvious.

Sherlock huffs a frustrated breath and dives deeper. There must be something that will tell him where Moriarty has taken John. He surely allowed John to answer in order to allay Sherlock’s suspicions and convince him to go about his business. The conversation had the exact opposite effect. Sherlock tilts his head in concentration, listening for any clues.

A long, low creek, slow and deep with a heavy weight. Muted splashing as though water surrounds John, but not directly. Like in a boat. Yes, Sherlock’s mind hisses. The creek is the slow bob of a boat in the steady lap of a body of water. Lake Claire or Erie? Sherlock cocks his head suddenly as if straining to hear. It’s there. The faint call of birds. He squeezes his eyes tight and bites his lip. In the calls. It’s the clue and he just has to hear it properly. Isolate the calls and find the doctor.

Sherlock’s body is tense. He shuts out every other part of his brain, everything in the outside world. His office melts away around him and he is in John’s shoes, his body rocking with the motion of a small boat. It is stationary. The water rolls around it rather than moving against it with any kind of speed. And birds sound together in the distance. Peregrine falcon. Osprey. Swainson’s hawk.

Sherlock’s eyes pop open wide with realization. His lips part, astonished at what he has found. Lake Erie Metropark, the marina would house both boats and these bird calls. Moriarty must have a boat of his own there and John is with him, but how long have they been there?

He rushes to his desk and picks up the receiver for the landline. Pressing 1-2-1 quickly, he waits for front reception to answer. Alice Sutton is a kind, old soul who has sat at the stadium’s main entrance for decades and good friend to Martha Hudson. Alice had asked for the job when she was originally hired for another position. She had been a flight attendant in her younger years and learned martial arts throughout countless trips to the east. When she took early retirement in her forties and joined the stadium staff, she wanted something different and security seemed like just the thing.

“Anything wrong, Sherlock?” she asks in her kind southern drawl. “You planning to leave soon?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief at having caught her before the end of her shift, “soon now, Ally. Can you tell me - did you see Dr. Watson leave?”

“I sure did, Sug. Not at all himself when he signed out,” she tells him in a friendly tone and then comments. “Very grumpy and that man with him wasn’t any better.”

“Man? What man?” Sherlock presses the phone closer to his ear, listening anxiously. He is tingling all over with nervous energy, wishing he could shove his whole body through the phone and wires and reconstitute at the front desk to demand a full description of the incident. He takes a deep, fortifying breath to keep himself calm as she explains.

“Tall, light hair, built. I might have flirted a bit if he had seemed anything less than an asshole,” Ally remarks with contempt. He can picture the disdain on her weathered, but kind face. “I tell you, he had a glare on his face enough to scare away a polecat.”

Sherlock breathes a curse he hopes she doesn’t hear, although the quiet puff of a chuckle tells him differently.

“What time was that?” he picks up a pencil and snaps it between his fingers in an attempt to relieve his tension. It does not work as she gives him worse news. His mouth falls open in dismay.

“4:36, Sug,” Ally reads off the sign in sheet at her desk.

That was nearly two hours ago and it takes roughly an hour to get to the marina. What could have happened in the last sixty minutes?

“Thank you, Ally, thank you. Have a wonderful evening,” Sherlock rushes to say.

“Why thanks, Sug. You too,” she tells him with a smile in her voice. She pauses and, like Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock cannot bear to hang up on her. He holds his breath in anguish, silently pleading for her to say goodbye and hang up. “Are you all right, Sug? Not to put too fine a point on it, but you sound terrible. I hope the doctor didn’t ruin your plans. He’s such a nice fella.”

“Yes,” Sherlock lets the air out of his lungs in a rush and can’t help but smile, “Yes, he is.”

“I hope you get a hold of him soon,” he can tell she winked as she said it. “Bye now.”

“Goodbye, Ally, and thank you,” Sherlock replaces the receiver into its cradle and stares straight ahead. Moriarty has taken John to Lake Erie Metropark Marina and Sherlock must stop whatever he has planned before it’s too late.

***

As soon as John ends the call, Moran plucks the mobile from his hand and tosses it carelessly to Moriarty. The goon immediately grips John’s bicep again and holds him fast against his own body. John ignores him in favor of glaring daggers into Moriarty. The man smirks back at him, tossing John’s mobile up and catching it in one hand in a natural rhythm.

“That wasn’t at all the heartfelt chat I expected,” Moriarty snarks, stepping near in the already close quarters of the small boat.

“Wasn’t really the point, was it?” John snaps back. It is not a question. When it started ringing and Moriarty handed it to him, Sherlock’s name lit up on its screen, the miserable sod commanded John to make him think everything was fine. John knows for a fact that Sherlock did not leave the conversation with that thought. Fortunately, both Moriarty and his oaf believe the opposite.

“True. Very true,” Moriarty frowns comically and then throws the mobile to the floor where it shatters into pieces. John doesn’t so much as flinch. “It’s too bad, really. Everyone should have the chance to say goodbye.”

He steps closer so he and John are nose to nose. His eyes are dark with menace and his lips curl into a dangerous grin. Pressed between the two men, John holds his head high and fumes. He’ll be damned if he lets these two bastards intimidate him.

“Of course, you had your chance,” Moriarty continues in a melodic tone, getting right up into John’s personal space. “You could have walked away from all of this, but you didn’t. You decided that slut was worth your life.”

Moriarty barely gets the last word out before John’s arm yanks free of Moran’s grasp and his hand darts to Moriarty’s face, connecting with a satisfying crack. The man stumbles back, bent at the waist with a hand cupping his nose while the other gropes for a towel or tissue stowed on the nearby shelves. The single room below deck is small, but still holds a desk near its back wall and a narrow bed on its left wall. One side of the desk is attached to the right wall with its end supported by two legs, one at each corner. The walls are more or less lined with inlaid shelving packed full with maps, nautical equipment, and other odds and ends.

John had ample time to take in his surroundings after they arrived, so he knows his forehead comes down on the log book when Moran slams his head onto the desk. Its soft cover is probably all that keeps him conscious after the blow. Even so, John crumples to the floor when the man releases him. Standing over him now, Moran gives two good kicks to John’s kidneys. His lower back explodes with pain that shoots down his legs to his feet and up his back to his shoulders. John bites his lip hard to keep quiet, unwilling to give Moran the satisfaction of even a gasp. John curls in on himself, fighting to pull his head together and find a way out of this. 

“It’s fine,” he hears Moriarty growl. “Get him up.”

Moran is suddenly pulling John to his feet roughly. He is greeted with the sight of Moriarty holding a handful of bloody tissues to his nose. A mirthless smile spreads across John’s face and he watches as Moriarty swaps them out for new ones. 

“Smarts, doesn’t it? Oh, it looks broken,” John grins even as he feels the tingle of blood trickling past his left eye from a throbbing wound above. He resolutely ignores the pain spreading from his temple and continues. “You should see a doctor.”

Moran twists John’s arm behind his back and pulls his hand up between his shoulder blades viciously. John inhales sharply, arching his spine and leaning into Moran in an attempt to ease the pain. Moriarty pulls the mass of tissues away and clenches his teeth in a hideous smile, a thin line of blood lingering in between his front teeth.

“Not the first time,” he shrugs, suddenly nonchalant. “Your boyfriend beat you to that.”

“Oh, only Sherlock? I find that hard to believe,” John bears his teeth. “You’re such an asshole, after all.”

Moran snarls and shoves John down onto the desk again. Bent at the waist, John’s torso comes to lie flat on the desk and its contents. Paperclips fly everywhere when John’s free hand rams into them as he instinctively tries to break his fall. The side of his face presses against the stapler and the tape dispenser digs painfully into his ribs. Moran makes it worse still, pinning John’s left hand behind his back and covering John’s compact body with his larger one to ensure he stays put.

“Oh, dear,” Moriarty saunters over and squats in front of John’s face. “You’re making Seb very angry, John. I think you should apologize.”

“Get used to disappointment,” John snorts and then bites off a pained groan when Moran presses down harder. John will never look at tape dispensers the same way again.

“You are sassy, aren’t you, Doctor? I don’t think I gave you enough credit when we spoke the first time,” Moriarty chuckles, eyeing John with admiration. “Damn, you would’ve been quite an asset.”

John glares, but does not utter a word. Moriarty lifts the back of his hand to John’s cheek and ghosts his fingers over the soft skin. John cannot pull away from his touch, so he stares Moriarty down with deadly eyes. The muscles of his jaw work beneath his skin as he clenches his teeth in fury. Moriarty watches him and continues fluttering his fingers gently.

“Blackmail was the next step after your resignation,” he smiles pleasantly and strokes John’s face. “Anyone Sherlock Holmes cares about is much too valuable to let go, especially one he cares for as much as you.”

“I’d die first,” John bites out, finally managing to twitch away from his touch. He lifts his head off the stapler and growls a low, dangerous sound. Moran’s big hand covers John’s ear and shoves his head back down before John can utter another word. John squints his eyes shut in pain, but opens them again quickly when footsteps sound on the deck above.

“Ah, there she is,” Moriarty straightens up, still looking at John with a hard gaze. “Now we can finally move things along.”

He nods toward John and Moran lets out an amused grunt.

“You should have let me shoot you back in your apartment,” he whispers hoarse in John’s ear. He blows a hot breath onto John’s head and his ear feels almost wet with its humidity. “It would’ve been so much easier.”

John feels Moran’s tongue lick at his ear. He pulls his head away as far as he can with a grimace. Moriarty’s wry laugh echoes through the cabin as he walks to the stairs that lead up to the deck.

“Fuck off,” John barks. Moran yanks John’s hand back between his shoulder blades with a snap. John clenches his teeth in pain.

The trapdoor at the top of the stairs snicks open as Moriarty reaches it and stops. He greets the new addition and they walk down the stairs and into the cabin. The sight that Moriarty reveals shocks John to his core. He stares at the woman with wide eyes, mouth hanging open in disbelief. Then he is struck by the raw feeling of betrayal. It grips his chest and squeezes hard enough that he isn’t sure he can breathe.

“Now we have everything we need,” Moriarty exclaims with a kind of false mirth that strikes John as a bit manic. He looks at John with eyes that scream pure evil, his mouth curling into a terrifying half smile. “Start her up and take us out,” Moriarty tells her over his shoulder. “Right out in the middle of the lake. As secluded as you can find.”

“Got it, Cap,” she replies and turns on her heel. She is back up the stairs without so much as glancing at John. He feels a cold knot settle in his stomach at her lack of acknowledgment. 

“Tie him up, Seb,” Moriarty says from the stairs. He looks into John’s eyes and gives him an unholy grin. “And whatever you might want to do in the meantime.”

The tall man chuckles darkly as Moriarty disappears up the stairs. Moran finally straightens and lets John’s arm slacken as he reaches for the rope. Taking the opportunity, John twists in his grasp and has them both on the floor in seconds. Before Moran can react, John jumps to his feet and runs for the door, but stops on a dime when a bullet grazes his ear and buries itself in the cabin wall. John is frozen, staring at the tiny hole next to him. Moran’s feet clomp heavily as he walks toward John.

“Turn around, Doctor,” he commands angrily. 

John wets his lips and obeys. When he meets Moran’s eyes, both pairs are burning with fury. They stare one another down for a few seconds and then John’s gaze darts to the gun in Moran’s grasp. John is so close to the door. He need only knock the weapon from Moran’s hand and bolt up the stairs, hopefully avoid Moriarty and dive off the boat. Moran sneers, steps close and thrusts the gun into John’s chest.

“Go ahead,” Moran growls, resting the end of the barrel against John’s sternum. “Give me a reason.”

The room is silent and neither man moves a muscle until John slowly raises his hands. He tilts his head in resignation as they go up.

“That’s what I thought,” Moran says just before crying out in pain and falling as John kicks his knee at a crushing angle. He lunges at the man as he goes down, grabbing for the gun to wrestle it away from him. They struggle together desperately for the briefest of moments. John throws all of his weight into it, knowing this is his only chance. Moran is bigger and stronger than he is, but John can still use his own size to his advantage. No one expects him to possess the power one develops as a surfer, especially someone in Detroit who has never seen him on the waves. 

With his hand wrapped around Moran’s wrist and the other pressed into his throat, John slams Moran’s hand to the floor once, twice. He needs him to drop the gun if he wants a chance to get out of this. When John tries to slam it down a third time, Moran resists and pushes back, burying the weapon in John’s chest again and squeezing his finger on the trigger. Panic courses through John’s veins, electrifying every inch of his body. It can’t happen this way, never seeing Sherlock’s face again or hearing his voice.

John twists away from the barrel and wrenches Moran’s wrist just as the trapdoor at the top of the stairs rips open and the gun fires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, Jane! OMG, you are vicious! I know, friends, I know. How can I keep you waiting a whole week to see what happens? Evil. Pure and simple. I know I should say more, but I’m just going to leave you all with your thoughts and theories and move right on to Question Time.
> 
> 1\. What. The fuck. Just happened. With John????? Is he okay? Is he hurt? Surely not dead. Jane wouldn't do that, would she? Aaahhhhhh!  
> 2\. Sherlock knows the place and the boat, but now WHICH boat? We've already seen that he doesn't have much time. How is he going to figure it out?!?!? Gaaaarrrrghhh!  
> 3\. If/when Sherlock does find John, how is he going to stop whatever Moriarty has planned?  
> 4\. I hate to say this, but what if Sherlock finding the boat and joining them is ALL PART OF MORIARTY'S PLAN?!?!?!?! Mother fucking aaaahhhhrrrbbbegahhhh!  
> 5\. I'm sorry, everyone, but I just don't see how they're both going to get out of this alive.  
> 6\. Oh, wait.  
> 7\. Who is the other skater helping Moriarty? That's an intriguing question there, and  
> 8\. Are BAMF John's attempts to escape helping or hurting him? Hmm. You be the judge.
> 
> Okay, I slipped into a little of my Deadpool side there at the end. I know you won't mind. You all know me, which doesn't necessarily bode well for John and Sherlock. Yikes! They have truly gotten themselves stuck in a mess like a june bug in molasses, and that's thick molasses too.
> 
> Tune in next time! Same bat time, same bat channel.  
> Love, Jane


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is captive on The Crown and a gun has been fired.  
> Sherlock knows he is on a boat on Lake Erie, but can he find John in time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, my friends! I’m so sorry it’s been so long since our last meeting. God, I’ve missed you all. It’s been a hell of a couple of weeks, but all is well. I hope this finds all of you well too. I’m sorry to have left you dangling over the cliff all this time. Trust me when I say it was not intentional. Please forgive me. I certainly can’t wait for you all to read this next, long-awaited chapter, so I’ll get right down to it after I thank my wonderful beta, MyBreadAndButter. She brings out the best in me and words cannot express my gratitude. 
> 
> Here we go, my friends. I'll see you on the other side.

_ Boom! Here comes the Boom! _

_ Ready or not, here comes the boys from the Lasal _

_ Boom! Here comes the Boom! _

_ How you like me now? _

_ \--P.O.D., Boom _

Sherlock closes his car door and begins scanning the rows of small and medium-sized boats docked at the marina. He has no idea what the name of the boat is, what it looks like, or if it is even registered to Moriarty or Moran. He glances at the small registration building some distance away and rolls his eyes at the closed sign plastered over its window. He goes back to scanning the boats for any sign of John or his kidnappers. The marina is nearly abandoned and the sun is setting. A few boats glide through the water around the docks while others are anchored a hundred yards or more from it, sprinkled here and there in the water. Their passengers are on deck watching the sunset or having a drink, maybe a quiet party. Sherlock can just hear the sound of their faint laughter. He squints, but the distance and receding light make identifying any of the people on even the closer boats impossible.

Sherlock walks quickly toward the docked boats and then stops abruptly, eyes rapidly scanning each one again. He lets out a puff of frustration and looks out at those farther away. His gaze flits from one to another, moving and stationary. Panic begins to fill his chest and well up into his throat. A dull ache he tries to ignore rests at the base of his neck. He knows John is here, or was and has sailed away. Frankly, the latter is far more likely. Damn it all. If he’s so fucking brilliant, why can’t he find John?! Moriarty wants to see him fail, wants to destroy him. This cannot be the way he fails. The championship, sure, one or even two years. The team can come back from that, but John… He cannot lose John.

God, Sherlock should have let him go when he had the chance. Yes, John would be safely away and not in a boat somewhere on this lake being murdered. Goddammit. No, that never would have worked. Moriarty wouldn’t have let John walk away. He would have pulled him back in. Why? Simple really, because Sherlock loves him. That’s what this is all about. Sherlock is killing him by caring. Caring is not an advantage.

_ It’s everything. _

John’s voice comes to Sherlock’s ears in a memory as clearly as if he is standing right next to him. Sherlock’s lips part in surprise, his glistening eyes open wide and he lets out a quiet gasp as a tear breaks free from his lashes to skitter quickly down his cheek. Those words begin to ground him and his mind starts to settle. His heart rate slows to something approaching normal and he feels like he can think again. The slow calm brings the clarity he needs to find the solution he so desperately needs. All because of those two words and what they mean. All from John. 

“I love you,” Sherlock mutters out over the lake and then squints his eyes shut hard. He concentrates on their phone conversation, runs every detail multiple times, and then recalls every undeleted conversation he has ever had with Moriarty. Nothing. Nothing! Sherlock shakes his head angrily. He cannot let the fear and frustration cloud his mind. He  **has** to do this. 

He turns back to his last conversation with John again. There must be something there. John would have given him something, some clue, but what could he do? On the phone, Sherlock couldn’t see him so no visual cues of any kind. John said precious little and could not have said anything too out of the ordinary with Moriarty breathing down his neck. 

Breathing.

John’s odd breathing. Sherlock had thought it was nervousness, but suppose… He starts at the beginning again and listens.

His shoulder sag. Nothing. Just a man who wants to say everything, but can reveal nothing. 

Sherlock’s brow knits in frustration and he grinds his teeth. He clenches his fists and thrusts them down to his sides, turning this way and that on the dock. God, he wants to kick something. He wants to punch the goddamn smirk right off of Moriarty’s fucking face. If he has done anything to John, Sherlock will kill the bastard himself.

No. He stops pacing. There has to be something more to the phone call, something Sherlock isn’t getting. He cradles his forehead on the tips of his fingers, tilts his head down and closes his eyes. There must be something. The man who studied multiple subjects while in medical school and still completed in record time has to have given Sherlock a clue. He would have found a way and now Sherlock must find it. John’s life depends on it, depends on him. Sherlock cannot let him down.

He takes in a long, slow breath and blows it out just as slowly. He works to clear his mind, tries to calm himself. Sherlock starts at the beginning of the phone call once again and listens to everything: John’s tone, pitch, volume, all the sounds around him that revealed his location. He hears the quiet splash of water and low engine noise when a boat passes their own. Even as Sherlock hears nothing new, the letter ‘T’ appears before him in his mind’s eye. He ignores it and continues to listen. ‘H’. Sherlock shakes his head gently in dismissal to concentrate on John’s voice, his words. ‘E’.

Sherlock cocks a brow and twitches his head to the side. His eyes still closed, he wrinkles his forehead in confusion. ‘C’. Where are the letters coming from? Why can’t he ignore them and concentrate the way he wants to? ‘R’. Goddammit! Piss the fuck off!

In that split second of rage, everything snaps into place. Sherlock’s eyes pop open wide in awe.

“The breaths!” he whispers so softly the lapping of the lake nearly swallows its sound. “The code.”

A long exhale for a dash. ‘T’. Four short puffs for dots. ‘H’. One short puff for ‘E’. Long, short, long, short, ‘C’. Short, long, short. ‘R’.

Morse code. John sounded nervous, on the verge of panic or hyperventilation, in spite of the steady tone of his voice because he used morse code to give Sherlock clues when he wasn’t speaking. John Watson is a goddamn genius.

A spark of adrenaline surging through his body and every nerve ending tingling with excited energy, Sherlock closes his eyes again and listens to John speak to him without saying a word. Three long exhales for ‘O’, a short and two longs for ‘W’, long and short for ‘N’. ‘The Crown’. Sherlock listens for more and gets ‘B,O,A’ before John is out of time and ends the call. Clearly, John was spelling the word boat. The name of Moriarty’s boat is ‘The Crown’. 

At those two words, a memory bursts from the ever-locked door that holds what Sherlock has not deleted of his interactions with Moriarty. He had unlocked the door earlier to analyze his every encounter with the man and turned up nothing, but now armed with the name of Moriarty’s boat, one particular memory comes into focus.

It was right after a bout with the Demons during Sherlock’s first year as coach. Moriarty, nearly six years his senior and already well-known in the league, shook his hand afterwards with a lecherous gleam in his eye. Sherlock only kept the conversation so he would always know why he hates this man so completely. The condescension and presumption that he could have anyone and get any skater to join the Demons, not to mention he insisted on calling Sherlock ‘Hon’. Sherlock had vowed at that moment to steal the championship from this man year after year, and as decisively as possible.

“Tough luck, Hon, but that’s how it happens,” Moriarty had said with a leer as he shook Sherlock’s hand. When Sherlock moved to withdraw, Moriarty pulled on his hand and leaned in conspiratorially. Far too close for Sherlock’s liking and he struggled not to pull back. “You’re not going to make it as a head coach. Hudson will see it soon enough, but… You would make a top-notch assistant to my head. I’d love to have you under me.”

His grin was salacious and it turned Sherlock’s stomach, but he would never show it. Sherlock glared back at him with cool eyes. His answer was simple.

“I’m going to beat you every time we meet. I will take the championship from you,” Sherlock’s eyes flashed with intense determination and his teeth clicked as he enunciated every word, “this year and every year.”

Moriarty paused a moment, his smile turning down at the edges as he looked into Sherlock’s eyes and saw that he meant every word.

“Oh, Hon. You’re in the big leagues now,” Moriarty had laughed. “I always win one way or another. You should see me in a crown.”

“Sherlock!” a voice calls across the dock, bringing Sherlock back to reality. 

He whirls where he stands to see Greg Lestrade hurrying toward him. He feels himself exhale a sigh of relief in spite of himself. Greg is at his side in a blink and brings with him the welcome warmth of friendship. Sherlock has to admit he is glad he’s not alone in this endeavor. He’s a derby coach, not a bloody detective. He rolls his eyes at himself. He’s starting to sound like John, for god sake.

“Got here as fast as I could,” Greg is breathless. “Have you found them?”

“No,” Sherlock answers with regret, “but they are on Moriarty’s boat. It’s called ‘The Crown’.”

“The fuck?!” Greg puts his hands on his hips, still breathing a little hard. “How do you know that?”

“They’re out there somewhere on the lake. They need a place to kill John, if they haven’t already,” Sherlock says over Greg’s words. He looks at him impatiently. “I need your boat.”

“Yeah, you said on the phone,” Greg answers, still a bit befuddled, “but Jesus, Sherlock, kill him?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sherlock loses his cool and shouts in Greg’s face. “They’ve tried twice already! Why wouldn’t they try again, especially since John defied his orders!?”

“What?! What orders? What are you talking about?” Greg snaps back.

“John told you just this morning that he is not resigning,” Sherlock barks, annoyed by the waste of time. “Moriarty threatened me to make him resign.”

“He said he had a change of heart, not that Moriarty put him up to it!” Greg says loudly, anger building and laced with a touch of panic. “Fuck all, Sherlock, I can’t protect the two of you if you don’t tell me what I need to know.”

“We don’t have time for this!” Sherlock replies in earnest frustration, trying not to think about what is happening to John while they stand here squabbling. He does understand Greg’s point, but every minute they waste is another off John’s life. If he is still alive. Christ, he has to find John. He has to see him again and kiss him and tell him he loves him. He can’t lose John now, not like this. 

“I need your boat!” Sherlock snarls, accosting Greg and scrabbling at his pockets for the keys.

“All right, all right!” Greg slaps his hands away and turns. “Come on.”

He takes off in a run and Sherlock follows hot on his heels.They jump onto one of the larger boats in the marina. Sherlock has been on it before, but he couldn’t have picked it out of a 

crowd. He and Greg have had drinks both on deck and in its cabin multiple times. It makes for a good off-site location to talk strategy or plan goals for the year. Greg has small parties on it from time to time, which one might think would be too crowded, but its cabin is deceptively large with a small bedroom, kitchenette and dining space, and two small lounges to boot. A few of Greg’s vacations have consisted of merely sailing away for a week or two. Sherlock has considered buying one for himself, but sailing without a first mate is a rather unappealing venture. Perhaps with John… Oh god, John.

Greg turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. 

“Which way?” he asks hurriedly, turning the steering wheel and looking behind as they start backing out.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock confesses numbly.

“You don’t know?!” Greg’s head whips around to look at him in disbelief. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s eyes flit over every boat in sight and come to rest on one skating across the water. There’s something about it, its rapid pace while everything around it is slow. His laser sharp gaze shoots to his incredulous captain and then runs over the boat’s dashboard, stopping suddenly on a pair of binoculars to the far right of the steering wheel. Without a word, he lunges for it, just missing Greg with his outstretched limbs. 

“Jesus, Sherlock!” Greg ducks to the left, not taking his hands from the wheel so the boat doesn’t veer off course. “The fuck are you doing?”

Sherlock does not respond. With the binoculars in hand, he turns to leap gracefully onto the cushioned passenger seats that line the sides and back of the boat’s deck. He sees it as soon as he focuses the binoculars on the boat: black letters in elegant script along the side by its bow that read ‘The Crown’. He pans up to see its driver and his heart fills with dread. She would never reveal herself if John was meant to survive.

“There,” Sherlock points, following the boat with the magnifying lenses. “Ten o’clock, about 200 yards, heading west at 20 miles per hour.”

“I see it,” Greg acknowledges as he straightens their boat, getting in line for pursuit. “We should tell the police we found them.”

“Why?” Sherlock throws over his shoulder dismissively. “No one’s called them.”

“You haven’t...Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” Greg lays into him right as he opens the throttle.

For the first time since spotting The Crown, Sherlock takes his eyes from the binoculars. He shrugs when he meets Greg’s furious death glare.

“What was I to say? I think my friend was kidnapped even though I just spoke with him and he said everything was fine?” he snaps fiercely, cocking his head. “They would have laughed in my face.”

“There’s a record of attempted murder, Sherlock,” Greg’s voice is clipped, his words harsh. “Maybe if you’d asked for the detective on his case…”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock’s lip curls in disdain. “Even that idiot would have doubted my objectivity. Probably would’ve thought it was some absurd cover for making John disappear myself.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Greg glances away and huffs before looking back at The Crown. They may be following it at a good clip, but he is trying not to make it obvious. With a look of approval on his features, Sherlock returns his eyes to the binoculars. His lips press into a firm line as he watches, keenly aware of the fact that nothing below deck is visible and that is surely where Moran or Moriarty are. They could be doing any number of things to John on that boat. He could be dead already and they are simply dumping the body.

No.

No, he can’t believe that. John is not dead. He can’t be dead. He would fight. Fight until the end. He would never give up.

“Sherlock,” Greg’s loud voice snaps him from his thoughts before they can spiral down that hole. Sherlock turns his head away from the binoculars and toward Greg, who glares at him with every opportunity. “We are chasing them now. On a boat. You said yourself John’s on no pleasure cruise.”

“But I have no proof of that!” Sherlock insists angrily while Greg slaps a palm to his own forehead.

“Call. Them,” he snarls, every ounce of his furious gaze focused on the coach. “ **Now** .”

Staring at him icily, Sherlock tears his phone from his pocket and dials. They are on the open water now and Greg carefully matches The Crown’s speed. They will be suspicious enough without speeding to overtake it. They will have to at some point though and Sherlock needs to come up with a plan in the meantime. A fucking spectacular plan.

“911. What is your emergency?” the bland voice of an operator cracks on the line. 

“A man is being assaulted in the middle of Lake Erie on a small boat called The Crown,” Sherlock explains efficiently, if not irritably. “I am heading toward it now to help. The men on the boat are armed.”

“Sir? Sir!” there is frantic typing behind the woman’s voice, which has much increased in intensity after her indifferent greeting. “Sir, do not approach the boat. If the men are armed, they are dangerous. We’ll have your GPS coordinates momentarily. Wait for law enforcement.”

“They’ll be different by the time you get them and he’ll be dead if I wait for you to catch up!” Sherlock barks into the phone and ends the call. He pockets his phone, rather than throwing it in frustration like he wants to, and fixes a steely gaze on The Crown through the lenses of the binoculars. He can feel Greg’s furious, incredulous stare boring into the side of his head. “You wanted me to call them,” he shrugs.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock,” Greg mutters in exasperation. “Lying to the police?!”

“Lying?” Sherlock bellows, facing Greg with fire in his eyes. “It’s true! It’ll be happening by the time we get there if it isn’t already!” he turns away again to stare into the binoculars. “Now shut up so I can think of a way out of this!”

Sherlock clenches his jaw and hopes Greg thinks the vibrations quaking through his body are the result of anger and not fear. He has to think of something. John Watson cannot die today and Sherlock hopes with everything that’s in him that he is not dead already. God, Sherlock can’t even imagine his life without John. In the few months he has known John, Sherlock has never felt so close or so connected with anyone else in his life. Even Molly. Sharing his bed last night was the most natural, wonderful thing he has ever done and he wants to do it again. He’ll do it forever, if John will let him. Oh god, John. His love, his life. 

Save the doctor. Save the world.

Sherlock’s brows shoot up to hide under the curls dripping onto his forehead. He pulls back from the binoculars, his lips parted and eyes sharp. He has a plan. It is certainly not brilliant, but hopefully it will be good enough.

***

“Do you know how many sunken boats are in the Erie, John?” Moriarty asks in a smug and utterly delighted tone.

The boat is still and all four of its occupants are on deck. John’s hands are tied tightly behind his back and the pull of it makes the wound from Moran’s misfired gunshot even more painful. When the gun went off, it was no longer pointed at John’s chest, thank god. However, the bullet grazed his side and Moran has taken great pleasure in bumping or jabbing the wound at every opportunity. The side of John’s dark shirt is soaked with blood and he is certain it will need stitches, if he gets out of this alive that is.

John looks down at Moran, who is currently on his knees before John, with calculating eyes. The man ignores his glare and continues to fasten heavy weights to his tightly tied ankles. John also wears a belt of weights around his waist. He will go straight to the bottom, no doubt about it, and he has no idea how to get out of this. 

The Crown has stopped somewhere in the middle of the lake, still in the view of other boats, but far enough away that no one can help John, or even tell that he is in trouble. Moriarty could put him in the water with all the dramatic flare of a circus ringmaster without attracting the attention of the nearest boat. From what John can tell, no one in the boats nearest them has any intention of paying even the slightest bit of attention, except...

There is one certain boat that seems to be slowly approaching them and that troubles John immensely. Sherlock was meant to lead the police here, not come after John on his own. Even though he knows the others have seen it too, John tries not to watch the boat, but his eyes keep glancing in that direction as Moriarty croons and Moran ties strong knots on weights that make John feel so incredibly heavy.

John glances at Moriarty, who looks at him with an almost friendly smile and seems to be waiting for him to answer. John shifts his gaze back to Moran and then rests it on their unwavering driver, who leans against the wheel and watches the proceedings without comment. He feels a sense of antipathy in the pit of his stomach that grows and works its way up to his chest. John swallows down the bile of it burning in his throat and addresses her directly. 

“Why would you throw in with this?” John spits the words, nodding sharply in Moriarty’s direction with disgust. She stands up straight and turns slowly to face him full-on. She wears a dull expression on her face and cocks her head to the side.

“The money,” Sarah ‘Bone Crusher’ Sawyer shrugs unapologetically, a look of boredom in her eyes. John sneers and looks away from her with the huff of an angry laugh. “I know you’d like it to be something else, John. Blackmail or a sick relative who needs expensive treatments, but it really is just the money.”

John meets her passive eyes, his own burning with barely contained fury. A few seconds pass and then Sarah smiles slyly. Just smiles like she would an opponent on the track right before the whistle blows, like she knows something they don’t.

“Two thousand,” Moriarty answers his own question, disregarding their conversation entirely. Moran chuckles loudly from where he is still tying weights to John’s ankles, a dark, ugly sound. John breaks his glare with Sarah to glance down at the man as he secures the last of the five pound weights. Moran surveys his own handiwork and stands, giving John a menacing grin.

“The most of all the great lakes,” Moriarty continues almost gleefully. “Do you know how many of those shipwrecks have been found?”

He steps right up to John, invading his personal space. His eyes rake down John’s body and back up. Wearing a lascivious grin, he hooks a finger in the belt loop next to John’s buckle and tugs lightly. John easily keeps his balance, but sways closer to Moriarty. The man swoops in suddenly and licks John’s lower lip slowly, holding him in place as he does it. John suppresses his body’s near jerk of surprise and just angles himself backwards as best he can, but does not turn his head. He will not give any indication that this bastard has caught him off guard. When Moriarty pulls away, his lips twist in a smug and satisfied smile, his eyes full of hunger. John makes no response, his face stony and lined with fury. 

“Three hundred seventy-five,” Moriarty says in a low, but playful voice. “Eighteen percent. Just eighteen percent, John.”

“Do you have a point or are you just your propensity for useless trivia?” John finally snaps, wanting the bastard to shut the hell up and get out of his face, but not willing to give him the satisfaction of showing it.

“Only this,” Moriarty laughs lightly and then ducks in close to John again to whisper conspiratorially. “If they can only find a fraction of such large objects lost in this lake, they’ll never find you.”

His last four words come out in a dark and sinister tone. John does not break eye contact and suppresses a shudder that starts working its way up his spine. The man before him is not just some misguided bam pot with occasional psychotic tendencies, he is a full blown lunatic. Trying to talk him out of his fantasy or appeal to his sense of decency would be useless. The man has no conscience. Sherlock had called him a sociopath, rather than a psychopath. He was wrong.

“Oh, look!” Moriarty cries, looking out over the lake at the boat following them. It had stopped a few yards away right around the same time that they laid anchor, but it is moving toward them again. “It’s coming right for us.”

They all watch as it slowly closes the gap between them. Moriarty suddenly grabs John’s chin with one hand and jerks his head back to face him. They are very close and John can feel the man’s hot breath on his face. 

“You know it’s him,” Moriarty breathes in a hoarse, threatening whisper. “Look at how he cares for you, his damsel in distress.”

“You don’t have to do this,” John finds himself saying. He knows there is no talking Moriarty out of this, but he can’t stop himself from trying. He must do  **anything** he can to save Sherlock. He feels it down in his bones and in his heart. He would give himself for this man every time. 

“John,” Moriarty looks like he is addressing a child who has done something particularly cute, “are you begging for his life? Is that what this is?”

“It’s not worth it,” John continues, ignoring Moriarty’s taunts. “Not for the championship or to prove you’re better than him.”

Moriarty barks with uproarious laughter. The shuddering pleasure makes him step back a bit, giving John an unobstructed view of the other boat. He can see most of the driver clearly, but his face is obstructed. John’s heart is in his throat and his breath catches because he would know that body anywhere. Goddammit, why didn’t Sherlock call the police?

“Is that what you think?” Moriarty asks in mock surprise, regaining John’s attention with a light pinch to his chin. He leans in close again, their noses almost touching. “I told you once, I want to destroy him.”

John blinks wide, shock jolting through his body when Moriarty suddenly taps his lips against John’s nose in a light kiss. John jerks his head back instinctively and gapes at Moriarty’s wicked smile, too startled to pull himself together for a few seconds, but his mouth soon settles into a scowl that spreads over his features. The embers of anger in his belly are now a full-blown fire of rage and he flexes against the tight ropes bound around his wrists, willing himself to break them. God, he would tear this man’s throat out if he could.

“It’s not about victory,” Moriarty continues casually like he is simply straightening John’s tie before a picnic with friends and telling him how much he hates the potato salad that is sure to be there. He kisses John’s cheek deftly and John tries to squirm out of his grasp, the fire stoking, but Moriarty only holds on tighter. 

“It’s about revenge,” he whispers into John’s face. His voice is full of menace and promise, and he nips at John’s other cheek. This time John just twitches slightly at the touch, his eyes remaining on Moriarty’s. They are mesmerizing him like some sort of hypnotism and John can’t look away. “I offered him everything once and he refused. No one says no to me, John. No. One.”

Moriarty presses into John and covers his mouth with his own. He pulls John’s hair violently, provoking a cry of surprise and pain as John’s head tips back. Moriarty’s tongue plunges into John’s mouth and tangles around his tongue, working quickly with great sweeps and savage sucks. John moves his head from side to side in an effort to escape, fury seeping from every pore. It feels like every hair on his head is ripping out of his scalp, but he will not stop fighting. He viciously clamps his teeth down on Moriarty’s tongue, but it slips away before he can find purchase. Moriarty’s response to the attempt is strong fingers suddenly gripping John’s injured side, making him groan in pain even as his anger flares. He lashes out the only way he can and lurches at Moriarty, teeth snapping as he goes, but Moran catches him before he can topple to the ground with Moriarty beneath him. As Moran roughly sets John right again, doling out another sharp jab to his side. Moriarty’s stilted laughter echoes across the water, only rivaled by the engine of Sherlock’s boat, now almost next to The Crown.

“I’ve tried a lot of things, John, and I’ve waited for the perfect weakness. His Achilles heel,” Moriarty has one hand on each of John’s cheeks now, holding him in place. He is panting with a most disturbing energy. John tries to jerk his head away, but it’s no use. Moriarty’s hands are like a vice and he forces John to look into his eyes again as he whispers savagely. “It’s you.  **This** will destroy him. He. Loves. You.”

Moriarty lingers for a few seconds, breathing John’s air, telling him what he intends to do with every flick of his cold, soulless eyes. He pulls away suddenly and steps up onto one of the deck’s built in seats. Waving unnecessarily and calling out in an almost manic sing-song to the boat that is nearly side by side to theirs.

“Is that you, Sherlock?” Moriarty’s smile grows when the boat pulls up next to them, a scowl firmly set on the lanky coach’s face. John’s heart sinks. Moriarty holds his arms out wide. “I always said you should see me in a crown. Beautiful, isn’t she? We could have had some great times in her, Sherrrrlock. Just you and me.”

Sherlock turns off his engine and moves to stand in the middle of his boat’s deck. It is larger than The Crown and sits slightly higher in the water, so he looks down his nose at them with a grim expression. His eyes are hard as steel. An eerie silence overtakes them and it seems like even the far away reverie of the other boats on the lake has gone. Suddenly theirs are the only two boats in the water, like some kind of grand stand-off.

“Let him go,” is all Sherlock says, his voice loud and commanding.

“Oh, no, no, no. That’s not how this game goes,” Moriarty cackles, genuinely amused.

“This isn’t a game,” Sherlock replies sternly, his voice rumbling with hate.

“Isn’t it?” Moriarty asks calmly, jumping down from the bench to land on The Crown’s deck. He places a finger to his lips as if thinking. He rolls his eyes skyward and inhales deeply before looking back at Sherlock. “It’s all about derby. Isn’t that what you think? It’s what your doctor thinks.”

“No,” Sherlock answers simply. Moriarty’s brows shoot up in surprise, his eyes widening for a split-second. He steps closer to the side of The Crown, places both hands on its side and leans forward slightly.

“Oh?” he cocks an ear in Sherlock’s direction.

“No,” Sherlock does not take the bait to come closer and stays where he is. “This is about you and me. About rejection and humiliation.”

“You should have let me fuck you,” Moriarty growls, his eyes growing dark. His hands grasp hard at the boat and his knuckles are white. “You should have let me have you. **No one** has ever refused me, the Great Jim Moriarty, King of the Track. Except you.”

“True,” it is a guttural sound that shakes John to the core with its hate and passion.

“You take a little more of my life every year. One more piece lost with every championship,” Moriarty sighs, tilting his head down and lowering his eyes almost reverently. When he raises his eyes again, they are narrow slits or pure evil. “If it was anyone else it wouldn’t matter, but you… It’s always you.”

His final words are so vicious that John flinches minutely under their power. John’s gaze is locked on Sherlock, who has not spared him even a glance so as to keep his eyes on the enemy. Moriarty looks like an animal ready to pounce and John has no doubt he would rip out Sherlock’s heart if given the chance.

John feels restless, his whole body on edge from the crackling in the air. It is like a powder keg about to explode. Moriarty’s fuse is burning at full force, getting shorter and shorter with every word. What the fuck is Sherlock’s plan to get them out of this and how can John help? He should do something, say something! He should be distracting Moriarty somehow or clobbering Moran. He tests the rope wrapped around his wrists. Clenching his fists and straightening his fingers a few times, he finds the bonds are tight, but could be loosened with time. How much time, John does not know, but it’s a start. Shifting his eyes to Moran to make sure he is not watching, John begins shifting his wrists within the rope. He twists them this way and that as imperceptibly as possible, resisting the temptation to bite his lip with the effort and ignoring the pain radiating from his side.

“So ruin my career. Put me in the hospital. Kill me!” Sherlock snarls, fury building even as he struggles to rein it in. Moriarty is already shaking his head before Sherlock finishes the first sentence.

“That won’t do it, Sherlock. It’s not what I want,” he leans over the side and growls low in a voice befitting a demon. “I want to destroy you. Tear out your heart and end your life.”

Moriarty straightens again and backs from The Crown’s edge, closer to John and Moran.

“I thought your insipid little friend, but…” Moriarty’s pitch is back in its appropriate octave and it makes the small, knowing smile he wears all the more sinister. He gestures to John with a grandiose bow. “ **This** is your heart.  **This** is your life, and I. Will. End. It.”

As if on cue, Moran wraps his big hands around John’s biceps and pushes him to the far side of The Crown. The top of the side comes to right about the middle of John’s thigh and he would easily topple over if pushed, especially when restrained and covered with weights. In spite of the obvious intent, Sherlock does not move or flinch. John knows he does not want to tip his hand, but his visible lack of concern still squeezes John’s heart.

“You will not succeed,” Sherlock says coldly, careful to show no emotion but anger. “You failed to kill Molly and you only harmed your own spy when you tried for Harry.”

“Oh, you know about little Ginger, do you?” the villain huffs out a surprised laugh. “And I suppose Sarah is no shocker either.”

“You fail to defeat Rock City on the track,” Sherlock continues as though the man had said nothing. “Failure is your life. Your idiom and you will fail now too. It is inevitable.”

Moriarty’s jaw is clenched tightly shut, the thin muscles beneath his skin working fast. His entire form is tight as ripcord, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. Eyes blazing, body twitching every few seconds as if he is trying to keep from jumping into Sherlock’s boat to bite off his head, Moriarty manages a wry smile. It gradually grows into a terrifying grin worthy of a monster. In the silence that follows, Moran’s fingers tighten around John’s arms. He knows what is coming and is powerless to stop it. His mind should jump to action and find a way out, but that is not what his mind does. Instead it plays through all of his memories of Sherlock. He sees everything they have done, every moment shared, every expression and every word.

_ I love you. _

John’s mind zeros in on that moment, that voice. Sherlock’s voice. Sincere, honest, so full of adoration and love. Genuine love from a man who, until now, had guarded his heart with such vigor.

Suddenly, it all becomes astoundingly clear. The clouds are lifted and John’s eyes see what he has been forever hidden from him. His own feelings bubbling to the surface with such force it nearly knocks him off his feet. Every part of his body tingles and his heart explodes in his chest. He knows what it is! He knows what to call the feeling he has danced around for weeks. He should have known long ago, but just couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around it. He has never felt it for anyone before, hadn’t even thought himself capable, and he will never feel this way about anyone else. Only Sherlock.

John locks fierce blue eyes on Sherlock and feels an immediate warmth bloom in his chest. He has to say it. He has to tell Sherlock how he feels before it’s too late. Let the words pass through his lips at least once before they are forever silenced. John opens his mouth to speak, as Moriarty tilts his head and Moran pushes John over the side of The Crown. He twists his body instinctively, but his bounds allow for no movement sufficient to save his life.

“Sherlock!” is all John gets out before his words are cut off by the water that swallows him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAARRRRRRHHHGGGGGGUUMMMM! Jane. Jane!!!!! WHY? Two cliffhangers in a row??? What happened to our fairly safe and highly amusing Johnlock meets roller derby? Well, the trust is I just can’t help myself. I am the Empress of Evil, the Harbinger of Doom. Oo, I should’ve put that on the back of my t-shirt. Haha.
> 
> But seriously, my poor John. I've thrown him into certain death this time. He got away from Moran not once, but twice, but can he escape this? I won't lie, it doesn’t look good for him. And what of Sherlock’s plan? Does John being in the water toss the whole thing in the scrapheap? Wait, wait! I'm getting ahead of myself. Those were questions and I have not yet announced question time. Cart before the horse. *shakes head*
> 
> So, Question Time!  
> 1\. Can John escape this?  
> 2\. Will he ever get to tell Sherlock he loves him now that he knows? And godammit, Jane, how could you do this? Just because we were all afraid John would figure it out at a critical moment doesn't mean you had to do this!  
> 3\. What about Sherlock's plan? Does this play into it? Would Sherlock have expected this?  
> 4\. Can Sherlock get past Moriarty AND Moran to get in the water after John in time? If he does, will they jump in after him? 
> 
> God, there are so many questions and no answers. No fricking answers, Jane. BAAAHHHHH! I know. Believe me, I know, and I intend to answer every one of them...at some point. By the way, you might have noticed in the tags that I have added another chapter. As I was editing, I began to realize that there was just too much for one chapter and it simply had to be split into two. So now there are two more chapters after this one to look forward to. Huzzah! 😁 I hope they continue to entertain and give solace. Thank you all for your love and support. I shall see you...oh shit! I just realized I may be traveling next weekend and unable to post. Given that, I may end up waiting another two weeks to post. Unless, of course, the outcry is too overwhelming not to. 😂 If it is, I might post next Monday. In the meantime, I love you. Stay safe and keep your stick on the ice. We're all in this together.  
> Jane


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The showdown on The Crown continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Hello!! I’m back and I’m so sorry that I made you wait so long for this one. I took a little trip to Packer country last weekend and wasn’t able to work on it. It was a wonderful getaway though. I really needed the time away and spent some quality time with two really great friends. Don’t worry. It was a very safe and distanced. 😉 Oddly enough, we spent most of the time playing a detective game. It was so much fun, but we completely failed the first case! Our score was 8/24 for god sake. We did it a second time that went better and then excelled on the second case. I can't wait to get together again for number 3. Anyway, if you ever get a chance to play detective with your friends, do it.
> 
> So, on with the story. The shit’s finally hitting the fan and John just went over the side of The Crown. Aahhhhh, JAWN! Save him, Sherlock! SAVE HIM! (Don't you fuck with us, Jane. Save our John Watson.)

_I will try not to worry you. I have seen things that you will never see. Leave it to memory me. Don't dare me to breathe…_

_Baby, don't shiver now. Why do you shiver now? I need something to breathe. I want you to remember._

_\--R.E.M., Try Not to Breathe_

And for this, the second to last chapter, BONUS LYRICS!

_Then I open up and see the person falling here is me. A different way to be. I want more. Impossible to ignore._

_Now I tell you openly, you have my heart so don’t hurt me. You’re what I couldn’t find._

_Totally amazing mind, so understanding and so kind. You’re everything to me._

_Oh, my life is changing every day in every possible way._

_And oh, my dreams, it’s never quite as it seems ‘cause you’re a dream to me, dream to me._

_\--The Cranberries, Dreams_

A wave of panic descends throughout Sherlock’s mind palace when John disappears over the side of The Crown with a loud splash. _John will drown. John will drown. Jesus fucking Christ, he’ll drown!_ Sherlock fights with these emotions he cannot show, trying to master them. He must maintain control like never before and tamp down his instinct to leap into the water for John or this is all for naught. He has to stick to the plan.

In one swift motion, Sherlock pulls the flare gun tucked in his waistband from behind his back and fires it at Moran. It whizzes past his right ear and flies far off over the lake where it explodes, alerting every other boat in sight to the trouble. It also sets off a chain reaction on The Crown.

Moran twists in surprise, trying to avoid the flare. He needn’t have bothered because Sherlock is nothing if not accurate. He did, of course, want Moran to believe he had aimed at him so the man would play right into his hands. Moran’s sudden jump to avoid it rams his body into the side of the boat, doubling him over and right into the water after John. He splutters after resurfacing, blinking his eyes rapidly in lieu of rubbing them.

Sarah swiftly shifts to The Crown’s steering column and engages the engine. Pulling back on the throttle, the boat springs to life and begins to move away from Sherlock. With most other boats scrambling to help and the police on their way, Sarah knows there is little chance of escape, but she’ll be damned if she doesn’t try. Obvious, but understandable, and not Sherlock’s priority. He has far more important matters to attend to.

Sherlock rushes to the side of his boat with the intention of diving into the water to find John, but Moriarty hampers his plan. As The Crown pulls away, the man scrambles onto the built-in seats across the back of the deck and jumps into Sherlock’s boat with a loud scream. Sherlock sees him coming a fraction too late and has no time to react before their bodies collide. They fall to the floor together, Sherlock on his back and the smaller man on top of his lithe body. The back of his head hits the wood with a crack and his vision blacks out for what feels like a few seconds. When he opens his eyes, Moriarty’s hands are around his throat and precious little air moves through his windpipe. Sherlock grabs Moriarty’s wrists and pulls at them as hard as he can to no avail. The terrifying little man is possessed with fury and strength greater than his stature should allow. Sherlock tries to change his grip, but the angle of their bodies works against him and he cannot seem to free himself from Moriarty’s grasp no matter how hard he tries.

Still he tries, tearing at Moriarty’s flesh and grappling desperately for the upper hand or leverage or anything that will help. Even as he struggles for his own life, his mind turns to thoughts of John. Alone in the water, in the dark, dying. Sherlock’s lungs are just beginning to burn for lack of oxygen. John has been underwater for thirty seconds. How long can John hold his breath before his lungs inhale involuntarily in search of air only to fill with water?

Sherlock’s eyes are watering so much he can barely see and they begin to close. He can see himself in his mind’s eye as he gasps for breath. John must look the same, struggling not to gulp in the liquid all around. _Shit. Fuck. Fuck the plan._ He should have dove in to look for John himself. He saw him go in, so it stands to reason that it would be easier for Sherlock to find him in the murky depths. God, it’s a terrible plan and not knowing what is happening beneath the water is unbearable. He has to put an end to this wretched little man as quickly as possible and help Greg look for John.

Sherlock forces his drooping eyelids to open again and renews his hold on Moriarty’s wrists. He twists his legs out from under the man and wraps them around his waist, rocking from one side to the other. Moriarty frantically tries to stop him as he gains the momentum he needs to switch their positions. Moriarty squeezes Sherlock’s neck with his fingers, bruising it with an iron grip. Sherlock clenches his jaw and rocks harder, faster until they flip over completely. Moriarty finally releases Sherlock’s throat as their bodies roll. He thrashes his arms, trying to grab anything he can to keep Sherlock beneath him, but fails and falls flat on his back. His left hand crashes to the deck with a loud thud and a spike of pain that has him crying out. Both men glance toward it to see that his knuckles struck the flare gun that went flying when Moriarty attacked Sherlock.

They stare at it for a moment that seems to go on forever. Then they both spring into motion again as they scrabble for it, each trying to knock the other’s hands away while grabbing for the gun themselves. They roll onto their sides, facing the steering column and still grappling for the flare gun. Sherlock stretches his arms their full length and then stretches them again. The tip of his middle finger can just touch the trigger guard. He gives it one more shot and only succeeds in pushing the gun another millimeter out of his reach. He huffs in frustration and wraps his arms around Moriarty instead. The shorter man has positioned himself between Sherlock and the flare gun, their bodies flush with one another as if spooning. If their roles were reversed and Sherlock was the smaller spoon, the gun would be his. 

Moriarty suddenly scrambles in Sherlock’s arms, kicking at him and hitting any place he can reach. Sherlock holds fast, but the man lurches forward when he cannot break free and the momentum slides them both closer to the steering column. Moriarty reaches as far as he can, straining against Sherlock’s arms and closes his fingers around the flare gun.

Jerking his head just in time to avoid being stuck by it, Sherlock holds tightly to the smaller man and rolls to his other side, dragging Moriarty with him and slamming him down onto the deck. With his opponent momentarily stunned after the blow, Sherlock knocks the gun from his grip and then slams his head to the deck again. A surge of adrenaline races through Sherlock’s body at the sound and he is suddenly back in time listening to Moriarty badmouthing Molly all those years ago. _Take your whore back to the locker room and fuck…_ That was all Moriarty had gotten out of his mouth before Sherlock hit him and the same white hot fury streams through his veins now. Sherlock yanks Moriarty onto his back by his lapels and throws a leg over his body to make sure he stays down.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Moriarty bites out, his faculties sharpening again. “If I knew it would all lead up to this, I’d have jumped on you a long time ago. Is that how John likes it? Rough and dry like…”

Sherlock’s hand flies to the man’s face and cracks against his jaw with splintering force. His head falls to the side, blood spattering on the deck and staining Sherlock’s shirt. Moriarty’s arms fall limply to the floor and, for a moment, he is completely still. Then his legs begin to move slowly from side to side as he fights to stay conscious.

Sherlock looks around the boat quickly and sees a length of rope hanging from a nearby hook. He lifts off Moriarty just enough to grab it and sets to work tying the man where he lies. He rises as Moriarty turns his head to look at him in a daze.

“Doesn’t matter,” he slurs. The sound of sirens reaches their ears and Sherlock takes his eyes off the man to see a police boat heading toward them, along with three other boats that saw the flare. Moriarty’s next words recapture his attention with their unbridled cruelty. “You’re too late to save your precious John Watson. He’s dead at the bottom of the lake and you will **never** find him.”

Sherlock stares with somber eyes as Moriarty laughs hoarsely. A soft breeze ruffles his curls as he looks straight ahead and then angles his head down to look away from Moriarty. Water splashes against the side of the boat and the sirens grow louder.

“Put your hands where I can see them and don’t move,” calls an officer on deck, megaphone in hand.

Sherlock raises his arms slowly, fingers splayed wide, arms bent at the elbow. He lifts his eyes to meet Moriarty’s and curls his lips into a self-satisfied smirk. That seemingly innocuous splash of water, not at all the same as the natural movement of the lake against the boat, is all he needs to hear. Moriarty grins up at Sherlock with cruel amusement, but falters as Sherlock’s expression grows more smug.

“Don’t be so sure about that, Jim,” he says smoothly. “Unlike you, I never fail.”

A scrape of metal from the side of the boat catches the villain’s attention. He turns his head to see a hand clasp the side, groping for purchase as its owner climbs up the side of the boat.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Moriarty groans in frustration as the blonde, soaking wet head of John Watson appears. 

***

“Sherlock!” is all John gets out before his words are cut off by the water that swallows him whole. 

It is cold, a shock to his system and a single, quick shudder vibrates through his body. The weights around his waist and ankles drag him down immediately. He looks up to watch the water’s surface and its light pull away fast. He desperately wants to struggle and thrash his body in an effort to escape, panic clawing at his mind, but he does not. He resists the urge because it will only waste his energy and what little air he has in his lungs. Instead, he moves his hands as steadily as he did on The Crown. The ropes are looser, but not enough to pull a hand through. It will be harder to slip free now that they are wet. It will take more time to work the ropes enough for that, too much time and John is very concerned about sinking to a depth he cannot swim back from before his lungs give out. Even once his hands are free, there are ropes and weights to consider. As if that wasn’t enough, a sudden spasm of pain shoots down his side from the gunshot wound and it is all he can do not to gasp. John clenches his lips, rolling them in on one another to form a seal and looking back to the rapidly vanishing surface again. He doesn’t have a chance. 

John furrows his brow in determination and continues to work his hands within the ropes. He’ll be damned if he goes down without a fight. After a few seconds, John shakes his head and lets out a few bubbles to combat the burning sensation in his chest. Soon his lungs will feel like they are exploding and taking a breath will be the only way to combat it, whether John wants to or not.

He resolutely pushes the thought from his mind when a hand wriggles free and the ropes behind his back come loose. He moves his arms quickly and bends down to reach his ankles, but stops midway when another sharp surge of pain radiates from the wound and paralyses his body. Releasing a few more bubbles with a stifled cry, John grits his teeth and squints down at his ankles. Still sinking fast, the light of the surface all but gone, John can barely see them. He tries again, slower this time and just reaches his knees before the pain is too great. He straightens and touches the wound under his shirt with tentative fingers, another spike of pain. The water all around gets darker and darker, and a few more precious bubbles escape his lips. John’s chest is on fire with the need for air. It won’t be long before he sucks in a breath of water and a steady flow of silent obscenity is his response.

_Mother fucking fucker of a fuck! Piece of shit fucking shit._

The words echo through John’s mind as he moves his hands to the waistband of weights. He finds the knots, impossible to release, just as his internal monologue reaches the height of foul language. John shakes his head once in frustration and desperation. The burn of his chest is threatening to become all-consuming when he must focus all of his concentration on the ropes and the weights. He is about to close his eyes in an attempt to close everything else out when a sudden shaft of light appears before him, stealing his attention away. He watches curiously as the light draws near and when he sees its source, John blows out a large puff of air, nearly all he has left, in surprise. He is staring into a round mask that covers the very worried brown eyes of a scuba-clad Greg Lestrade. 

John purses his lips and just stops himself from saying what the fuck out loud, spelling his doom. Speaking of which, if he doesn’t get some air fucking now he is fucking dead. As if reading his mind, Greg takes the regulator from his mouth and holds it out to John. He nods at it urgently and pushes it closer. John does not need to be asked twice. He grabs the mask with both hands and shoves it in his mouth, inhaling deeply. Greg motions for him to go slowly and John nods. He breathes twice more as slowly as he can bear and offers it to Greg. He takes it for a few breaths and gives it back to John. As he breathes, Greg motions instructions that John interprets as they will continue swapping the mask until they hit lake bottom. At that point, Greg will cut John loose and they will take turns with the mask on the way up. Confident he understands the plan, John nods. Greg nods back with a tight-lipped smile.

John tries to breathe steadily when he has the regulator and ground himself as they continue to sink. He passes it over again and watches as Greg takes a few deep breaths. What the hell is Greg doing here? Sherlock didn’t bother to call the fucking police, but brought Greg along so he could risk his life too? And how the hell does Greg know how to scuba dive? Where the buggering hell did that boat come from? Neither of them ever mentioned a boat or scuba diving or so much as fucking swimming. Greg was definitely not on the boat with Sherlock. At least, not by the time John saw him.

_Oh, shit. Sherlock._

John left him up there alone with those jackals. What have they done? Is Sherlock in the water too? They’ll never find him. Greg must have been under The Crown watching for John to go over or he wouldn’t have found him either. John had not sunk far before darkness overtook him.

_Only eighteen percent found. Fuck._

John breathes slowly into the regulator when Greg hands it over and pushes down his fears. He cannot let himself panic, but how the urge does grow and it is all he can do to tamp it down. Sherlock said Moriarty would not kill him, that he wanted to destroy him instead and leave him to live with the pain. Moriarty himself said as much on The Crown, but Sherlock was pissing him off on purpose from the moment he showed up. He has a real knack for doing it too. God, John hopes he didn’t push the man too far.

John’s shoulders curl in a bit with the force of his feet landing on something hard and another jolt of pain vibrates through his body. He silently curses to himself, knowing it is only a flesh wound and not worth all the trouble it is causing. It is only the water and his wet clothes and the struggling that make it so painful. 

Tightening his jaw, John tries to concentrate on whatever it is he and Greg are standing on instead. It can’t be the lake floor. It would be softer with sand or mud. He looks down, but the sting of the water at this depth forces him to close his eyes. He can feel a pull on the belt of weights he wears and then it falls away. Next are the ropes and weights around his ankles. At first, John wonders at Greg’s speed and accuracy. Then he remembers that Greg is wearing goggles and has a torch. Of course he can see what he’s doing and thank the fuck for that. The man came prepared. Goddamn, Sherlock must have expected all of this. That’s why he stayed on his boat and didn’t come closer to them. He had Greg beneath to save John once he was out of harm’s way, leaving Sherlock behind alone. 

_Jesus, Sherlock. Where are you now? God, please be okay._

John feels so buoyant, no longer tethered to the weights and it is almost intoxicating. He nearly forgets where he is and what he needs to do until hands unseen take the regulator from him for a few seconds and then press it back into his hands. The same hands grab him around the waist as he takes another breath and pull him upward. John kicks his legs to help. Before too long, Greg needs more air and takes the mask from John again. He touches it briefly before taking it each time as a signal to John that he needs it. John wishes he could open his eyes, but the sting of extended exposure to the water is more than enough to put him off the idea. He needs to flush his eyes, not add more algae. 

The two men continue to switch the mask back and forth all the way up until they burst out of the water. John coughs and gasps and covers his face with his hands immediately, trying to rub the irritants from his eyes. A spike of pain has him arching his back and gasping. Fortunately, Greg still has a hold of him so he does not sink into the water. When it subsides, John continues rubbing until he can open his red eyes, squinting against even the soft light of dusk. John’s first sight is his own wrists, bruised and bleeding, the rope-burned skin broken.

“There,” Greg says from behind him and John can tell he nodded to their right. “To my boat.”

“Your boat?” John gasps, still coughing a bit, but incredulous nonetheless. “What the fuck, Greg?”

“I go out on it all the time,” he says in a good-natured, if not breathless, tone. “Great way to spend the weekend. Sorry I haven’t invited you yet. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Greg laughs and John just cringes as they approach the boat. 

“Jesus, Greg,” he huffs in mild disbelief.

The two men swim over to the side of the boat and Greg helps John turn so they are facing one another. He glances at John’s wrists with concern and then grabs onto a narrow, metal ladder fastened to the boat’s side from top down into the water. Greg must use it to climb back on after diving. He holds onto John’s torso just under his arm, mercifully on the side without the gunshot wound. They both kick their legs to keep afloat while looking at one another.

“You okay to climb up?” Greg asks him, glancing from John to the ladder and sizing him up.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” John replies, breathing a little fast. God, he is so exhausted. His body feels like it could seize up and drop at any moment. The adrenaline is wearing off and the shock of nearly drowning is catching up with him, but he has to hang on. He has to get out of the water and onto the boat where he can let himself collapse safely. As soon as he makes sure Sherlock is all right, of course. John cannot rest until he knows the love of his life is alive and well and before his eyes, cheekbones, curls and all. God, how he longs to see that smug smirk on Sherlock’s beautiful face.

“Right. Tell me if you get dizzy or anything,” Greg says in a serious voice that demands John’s full attention. John nods and Greg helps him turn to face the ladder. He seems to sense that John’s tired muscles are ready to give out, but does not utter a word and John is grateful for it. 

With one hand around a metal rung, John looks up the ladder to the top of the boat’s side. It looks like it’s fucking miles away. He swallows and turns his head to look back at Greg as best he can, managing to catch the man’s eye.

“Greg,” John’s voice is sincere and full of emotion. Greg looks at him with wide, concerned eyes and John must admit that the edge in his tone surprises even him.

“What?” Greg answers quickly, putting a hand on John’s shoulder to help brace him. “You okay?”

“Thanks,” John smiles kindly, his features weary but relieved. “For everything.”

The sound of shrill sirens fills the air and a megaphoned voice demands that arms be raised, hands visible, and it is clear that the cavalry has arrived. Greg’s face lightens and he huffs a laugh.

“Anytime. Anytime you feel like getting yourself almost killed,” Greg cocks a brow and shakes his head. “Never a dull moment with you two.”

John gives him a roguish grin before turning to start up the ladder. It is harder than it should be, so he goes slowly. The pain of the wound has lessened, but his muscles are tight and pained. There is no cramping yet, but it is only a matter of time. It will most likely start in his calves, which will make climbing this damn ladder even harder. John grits his teeth and concentrates on his task, moving one foot up and then the other, one rung at a time.

At last, he reaches the top and throws a hand over the side of the boat, grabbing its top with an iron grip. He is **not** going back in the water. He heaves himself up so his head pops up over the side and he can see in the boat. The sight that greets him is a rather disheveled Sherlock, with hands in the air, standing over a prostrate and tightly bound James Moriarty. John’s eyes widen at the blood spattered across Sherlock’s shirt, but he quickly determines that it is not his.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Moriarty says from the floor of the boat. He scowls, making no secret of his disgust. “It’s not fair. There’s two of you.”

“Evening,” John answers just before losing his grip and clutching at the side, pulling himself tight against it in an effort not to fall.

“John!” Sherlock bolts forward to grab John’s hands. The police voice barks orders for him to stand still, but he ignores it and helps John into the boat. 

John collapses to his knees immediately and Sherlock drops to his own in front of John. Leaning forward, he cups John’s face in his hands and presses their lips together in a kiss that reawakens John’s spirit. He slides his fatigued arms around Sherlock’s waist and holds on. When Sherlock breaks the kiss, he continues peppering John’s mouth with small kisses as words fall from his lips like rain.

“Oh god, John. Are you all right? When you went over the side…” Sherlock pulls back, his hands still on John’s cheeks and looking him straight in the eye. “Did they hurt you? Did they put their hands on you?” he wraps his arms around John and pulls him close. “God, I love you. I love you so much. If you ever leave my side again I’ll…”

He stops abruptly and pulls back again. His hands hold onto John’s shoulders, but now his face is tight with apprehension and regret.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says quickly with a cringe. “I shouldn’t have said that. A bit not good?”

“Not at all,” John’s lips curve into a fond smile. “It’s just fine.”

Sherlock’s expression quickly melts into relief. He wraps his arms around John and tucks his head over the man’s shoulder in a tight embrace.

“Okay then,” Greg announces from the ladder as the police boat approaches the opposite side. Their weapons are drawn and they demand that everyone stay still. Greg turns to look at them, raising one hand slowly and gesturing at Moriarty with the other. “We’ve got your man right here. There’s another one somewhere in the drink.”

“And a woman,” Sherlock adds, pulling away from John to look in their direction.

“You,” the tallest officer commands with a nod at Greg, “get in the boat and keep your hands where I can see them. Slowly.”

As Greg complies, Sherlock turns to face the police boat fully. 

“Officer, if you’d just…” he begins, but the man interrupts him.

“Stay where you are!” the policeman trains his gun on the coach, not knowing who is the perpetrator and who is the victim. “Both of you raise your hands slowly and stay right where you are.”

Sherlock purses his lips and furrows his brow, but obeys. His cool, grey eyes focus in on each of the policemen in turn, cataloging every detail as they climb onto the boat. A soft touch on his knee draws his attention away and back to John. He meets those dark blue eyes, swimming with emotion, his lips in a crooked smile.

“You did phone the police,” John says, voice brimming with affection and exhaustion. John is holding up his hands too and Sherlock notices his right arm is not nearly as high as the left. His eyes narrow suspiciously for a split second.

“Greg insisted,” Sherlock shrugs in reply and then his eyes soften. He tilts his head as he watches John wobble and begin to pitch over. Sherlock grabs him quickly to prevent his fall and wraps an arm around his shoulders, leaning John against the side of his body.

“Right. You’re all coming to the station so we can get this straightened out,” a tall sergeant orders all four of them. “Cuff ‘em, Riley.”

One of the other three officers who climbed onto the boat tucks his gun away and heads for Greg, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. Sherlock can see now that this sergeant is the highest ranking officer among them and clearly has no idea what is going on. Why did he even bother to call them and impart any information at all? Typical. Thoroughly annoyed, he rolls his eyes and says pointedly:

“Is this really necessary, Sergeant Budreau?” he reads the name tag beneath the man’s badge. “We are not armed and have made clear our full cooperation.”

“You’re the one who called?” Budreau focuses on Sherlock, taking a step closer to where he and John are still resting on their knees.

“I am,” Sherlock straightens, head held high. He keeps John steady by his side. He can feel John’s energy slowly seeping out of his body as the doctor clutches Sherlock’s side, willing himself to keep upright. Exhaustion and whatever wounds John might have are finally getting the better of him. Unacceptable.

“Then you won’t mind filling us in,” the stone-faced sergeant tells him, crossing his arms over his chest.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. John Watson,” he informs everyone in a firm, commanding tone. “He needs medical attention immediately.”

“Sir!” calls a man from the police boat. He had been directing other boats to the marina to be questioned as witnesses when something caught his eye. “There’s another one in the water over here. We’re pulling him out now.”

“You’ll want to cuff him,” Greg remarks as Riley secures his hands behind his back. Budreau looks at him with sharp eyes.

“We cuff everyone,” he reasserts.

“If you’ll pardon me, sir,” Riley observes as he heads for John and Sherlock, producing another set of handcuffs as he goes. He nods back at Greg. “This is Greg Lestrade, General Manager of the Rock City Rollers.”

“And?” Budreau prompts him in a disinterested tone.

“Sherlock Holmes, their coach,” Riley gestures to Sherlock and John, standing over them now. “The new Dr. Watson and I believe that is James Moriarty, the coach for the Demons.”

“Well, well, well,” Budreau walks to Sherlock and John and stands before them with a look of interest, “what were we doing here, gentlemen? Evening on the lake to watch the sunset and have a drink?”

Running out of patience and full to the brim with concern for John, who seems more and more wobbly by the minute, Sherlock opens his mouth to unleash some scathing deductions about the Budreau’s wife **and** girlfriend, but Greg steps in quickly and interrupts the coach before he can get a word in. The man clearly knows him too well.

“Riley is correct on all counts,” Greg begins calmly from where he stands, “and we were not here on a pleasure cruise. The truth of the matter is Moriarty, that man you’re pulling from the water and a woman named Sarah Sawyer brought Dr. Watson out here against his will, intending to kill him.”

Budreau is frozen to the spot, his brows raised in keen interest. He glances toward Moriarty who just sighs, rolls his eyes and looks away in disgust. Intrigued, the sergeant turns and approaches Greg while Riley cuffs Sherlock’s hands behind his back, leaving John to sway to and fro. Fortunately, the officer is no idiot and he helps John to the side of the boat where he can lean against something. Riley looks at the doctor apologetically as he handcuffs his battered wrists in front of his body, knowing it will be more painful if they are behind his back. Riley glances at Sherlock, who gives him a slight nod of thanks.

“Bender!” Budreau barks at another officer on the boat. “Take the helm and follow side by side to the marina.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies and steps up to the steering column. The remaining officer takes hold of Moriarty and drags him to the side. Propping him up to sit, he stands next to him to prevent any escape attempt. Not that Moriarty could get away if he tried and he glares across the boat at John and Sherlock. 

“Jenkins!” the sergeant calls over to the officer on the police boat. “You got the man from the water?”

“Yes, sir,” he replies. “We have him and are ready to go.”

“Good. We’ll follow you back,” Budreau faces Greg again and almost smirks, “while Mr. Lestrade here tells us about tonight’s events. Hm?”

Greg obliges as the boat begins to move. Medics radio from the marina and are told two need medical attention as soon as they arrive. Jenkins also radios the information about Sarah and The Crown in hopes they can intercept her at one of the other landing points. 

Riley holds Sherlock’s shoulder as he sits him next to John. Sherlock takes in the doctor’s condition in a glance. His skin is pale and his whole body shivers where he leans against the boat with his eyes closed. Unacceptable. Sherlock turns back to Riley abruptly.

“Let me take him to the deck below,” he says to the officer. “There are no weapons down there and we won’t try to escape. Please. He needs to warm up.”

Riley looks from coach to doctor and nods sharply. He rises and immediately addresses the sergeant. Already getting an earful from Greg, and beginning to understand the circumstances of the rescue, Budreau gives his approval. Riley adjusts Sherlock’s handcuffs so his hands are also in front of his body and then helps John to walk down the steps to the cabin. The man remains with them for the duration of the trip, standing back and silently watching, but neither Sherlock nor John spare him a thought.

Once John is in the boat’s small bedroom, covered with blankets, Sherlock puts on the kettle in the kitchenette. He soon has a steaming cup of tea and hurries back into the bedroom, Riley lingering somewhere in between to keep an eye on both of them. John is still shivering, but the involuntary movement has decreased considerably. Sherlock offers the cup to John with a nod of encouragement.

“This will help,” he tells him in a quiet voice. John simply nods in response and sits up more, blankets falling away to rest on his lap. He takes the cup in his hands and breathes in the steam. He exhales slowly, the scent of chamomile easing his nerves.

Sherlock drapes a blanket around his shoulders and pulls a chair close to the bed to sit next to him, his perceptive gaze finally able to take in every detail of John’s form and condition. His bruised and lacerated wrists, bruised temple with a fresh wound that still slowly weeps a thin line of blood. He must get a cloth for that and some ice. That is when he sees it. The dark red soaking into the side of John’s shirt, on his torso and just under his right arm. It is easily overlooked since he is soaked to the bone and his shirt is such a dark blue that it looks black with all the water. 

“John,” Sherlock whispers urgently and John knows. He tilts his head in acquiescence, allowing Sherlock to push the blanket off of his right shoulder. The doctor takes a long pull from the teacup before giving it to Sherlock so he can place it on a nearby table. John sighs and raises his arms, angling his head down to look at Sherlock’s new discovery.

“It’s all right,” John tells him, eyes half-lidded with weariness. “The bullet just grazed me. It’s only a flesh wound.”

“One that hasn’t stopped bleeding,” Sherlock prompts irritably. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Yeah, when have I had the chance?” John snaps back, but with little venom. “It needs stitches.”

“We’ll get you to the hospital once we reach the marina,” Sherlock informs him, leaving no room for question. He is well aware of the fact that John Watson does not like to be told what to do, but he doesn’t give a damn right now. John looks up at him with a scowl on his face, but does not protest. “Stay here. I’ll get something to slow the bleeding.”

“Christ, Sherlock, it’s not important,” John grumbles. He is weary and frustrated, his face scrunched up and lips pursed. “It’s just grazed. Just...stay here. With me. Please.”

Sherlock hears the hint of desperation in John’s voice and stops. He inhales deeply and then drops down into the chair again. He takes John’s hands in his own, stroking the backs of his hands with his thumbs. Sherlock isn’t sure if it is meant to calm John or himself, but realizes he does not mind either way as he watches the doctor shift to a more comfortable position. John blows out a long breath and closes his eyes. Sherlock watches him, sees every feature on his countenance and sighs. He leans forward and rests his forehead to John’s. The connection point is warm and radiates heat down Sherlock’s neck and into his body. It does not stop until it reaches his toes and he hopes John feels the same. No, he knows it does because it is not simply a physical connection. It is one that runs deep into their souls.

“John,” Sherlock whispers. It is nearly inaudible, but John sighs his response and Sherlock knows he has heard. Sherlock wets his parted lips and gathers the courage to continue quietly, hesitantly. “John, I…thought I’d lose you.”

“Shh,” the doctor shushes him, squeezing his hands. “You knew that wouldn’t happen. You had Greg in the water. You knew he’d find me.”

“But John…”

“You’re too damn smart not to have it all worked out,” John pulls back to look at him, a grateful and utterly besotted expression on his face. “You saved me.”

There is a long pause while they simply stare at each other. A thousand words seem to pass through the air between them. Words of thanks and confession and love and Sherlock wonders if John finally knows, but says nothing. Neither does John, until:

“Thank you.”

Sherlock’s lips turn up and he huffs a quiet laugh, reaching up to cup the side of John’s face.

“You’re welcome,” he says, not knowing what else to say.

A few minutes later, far fewer than they would have liked, the boat docks next to the police boat at the Metropark marina. When John and Sherlock emerge from below deck with Riley in the lead, the police are already interviewing witnesses from other boats. Moriarty and Moran are formally arrested and bundled into a patrol car. Two paramedics approach John for a look at his wounds as Riley removes the handcuffs from both he and Sherlock at Budreau’s orders. Apparently, Greg has given the man enough evidence to believe their story. Sherlock is the only reason the growingly irritable doctor walks to the back of the ambulance without incident. One of them begins packing off the gunshot wound, even as the other argues with John about an impending trip to the ER because stitching is not something they do on the scene. 

Before the argument has a chance to become more heated, two police officers march over to get statements from the duo. Sherlock’s is not nearly as long as John’s so he ends up listening more than talking. He cringes several times as the doctor speaks and wants to take John in his arms and hold on so he can make sure this is real and John is truly safe. Budreau is also there, interjecting questions whenever it suits him. A part of Sherlock wants to punch him just to shut him up so John can talk. The insufferable man asks a handful of questions once John is finished and then starts checking that everyone is wrapping up. 

“Sir,” Officer Riley joins them briskly. 

“Riley,” the sergeant addresses him in a short, clipped tone.

“Smith just radioed in,” the man tells them, unaffected. Sherlock watches Riley thoughtfully thinking how he must have worked with the dimwitted Budreau for so long and he is used to his dense, slow mind. Sherlock sighs almost out of pity. “They found The Crown and Sawyer. She tried to dock in Sandusky and blend in with the amusement park crowd. They’re taking her to the station.”

“Good work, Riley,” Budreau replies, nearly sounding sincere. “Everyone’s wrapping up here. Get ready to move out.” 

“Yes, sir,” Riley nods and hurries away. Budreau turns back to Sherlock and John, giving them a congenial tilt of the head. 

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” he offers his hand and, in spite of his annoyance, Sherlock takes it for a shake. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

“Of course,” Sherlock’s lip quirks up. ”Thank you, Sergeant. Your timing was impeccable.”

John’s brow disappears under his damp, spiked fringe as he swats away a paramedic.

“I’ll send one of the officers around tomorrow so you can both sign your statements,” Budreau replies, a slight smile his only response to Sherlock’s comment. “You’ll be at the stadium then?”

“All day,” Sherlock tells him, rolling his eyes in his mind and stifling the desire to mutter ‘tedious’.

“Good. We’ll be off then. Best, Dr. Watson,” Budreau acknowledges John as he turns to leave. The doctor replies with a ta and the sergeant begins to walk away, but stops suddenly and looks back at them. “Take the championship. The Rockets are looking to kick you off the throne.”

With that, Budreau turns his back and sets off for the police cruisers, calling out to Riley and the others as he goes. Sherlock casts a glance around the dock as officers scramble to finish their work and notices Greg in the middle of the bustle talking with the officer who steered them back to the marina. They both wear broad smiles and Sherlock is quite certain they have moved on from the topics of the investigation to one of a more friendly nature. The coach finds himself smiling in spite of himself. 

John’s angry voice and clipped words draw his attention to the argument taking place at his side. He listens to every word the paramedic says, every justification for John to go with them to the hospital, all while John shoots back refusal after refusal. Apparently, John is much like Sherlock in that way. He certainly doesn’t mind visiting Ford Hospital when one of the ladies is laid up, but he detests going for his own treatment. Nevertheless, John must go to the hospital. Sherlock presses his lips into a tight line and moves in closer to the doctor. 

John is leaning against the back of the ambulance, his bum resting on its bumper. A bright orange blanket hangs around his shoulders in spite of his swift movements as he points a finger and glowers at the paramedic before him.

“Dr. Watson, if you’ll just listen to reason,” the medic implores, but John will have none of it.

“No,” he grumbles, low and dark, “I am not riding in an ambulance.”

“John,” Sherlock snakes a stealthy hand under the blanket and squeezes John’s thigh. The doctor quiets almost instantly, his eyes shifting to the coach. His entire demeanor has changed. Gone are the razor sharp edges in his posture and the hardness in his eyes, as the anger seems to drain from his body. “You need the stitches and you know it.”

John cocks a brow and his blue eyes begin to cloud. He opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“I’ll drive you in my car,” he placates in a soft voice that surprises even himself. Sherlock looks to the paramedic for approval as he continues. “We’ll go to the ER and get you taken care of.”

John stares Sherlock down for a few seconds, but not with piercing eyes or an angry expression. The paramedic gives a reluctant nod of concession and then Sherlock turns all of his attention to John. They gaze at one another for what seems like a long time until John sighs, shoulders relaxing a fraction. 

“All right. Fine,” he agrees, still a bit tetchy. “In your car.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock all but whispers, giving John another squeeze.

The paramedics thank him as well and then one climbs into the ambulance to ready the vehicle to leave the scene. The other remains before them to tell Sherlock how to care for the wound, as well as all of John’s other cuts and bruises. He listens intently and commits every detail to memory, knowing they will only give him all the same information in the ER and he will listen again then without being bored. Anything involving John will be preserved in the mind palace for as long as Sherlock draws breath. Sherlock intends to spend the rest of his life learning as much as he can about John, if he will let him. ‘It’s just fine’, John had said on the boat when Sherlock confessed his desires for their future. ‘Just fine’. He hopes the doctor has not changed his mind now that the danger is well passed.

Sherlock leans forward a little to look at John straight on. He nudges John’s thigh where it is still nestled under the blanket and the doctor raises his eyes to look at Sherlock from beneath long lashes. Sherlock wets his lips and inhales a silent breath, his pulse quickening slightly.

“Are you all right?” he asks stupidly, already knowing the answer. He nearly rolls his eyes.

“Yeah,” John answers with a shrug, almost numbly. He huffs a laugh and angles his head to gesture at the blanket still on his shoulders. “She says I’m in shock.”

“It is possible,” Sherlock lightens his tone. “You were fully submerged for quite some time and are still wearing the same clothing. I’m surprised your teeth aren’t chattering. I’m assuming you were out of breath before Greg found you.”

It is not a question exactly, but his tone rises at the end as though it is one. Greg had donned his scuba gear and disappeared into the water when they were still quite far from The Crown. Sherlock could easily see its four occupants on deck, but not clearly enough to determine who was who by features. He still knew, of course, based upon their relative positions. He knew John would be in the water soon and that they needed to act fast, but had no idea how quickly Greg could swim or how easy it would be to find John once he got there. Sherlock had tried to delay Moriarty as long as he could and John still went into the water before Sherlock would have liked. 

He eyes John with concern when the doctor does not answer in favor of staring down at his own hands. Sherlock nudges him with a shoulder.

“John,” he says gently. The doctor looks up at him in surprise, his eyes sparkling and wet. Sherlock furrows his brow. “John?”

“Yeah,” John croaks, swallowing hard. Visibly forcing his muscles to relax, he shakes away his feelings and gives Sherlock a kind of uncertain smile. “Yeah, I’m good. It was all good. Greg found me before I…”

John trails off and bites his lip. Sherlock knows what he was going to say. John lets his lips part as he searches Sherlock’s eyes.

“He cut it damn close though,” John continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I was imagining things when I saw the torch.”

“Torch?” Sherlock’s eyes crinkle at the edges and John looks at him blankly for a moment before realizing. He smiles brilliantly before he can even think twice about it and Sherlock’s heart swells at the sight. 

“His flashlight,” John amends with a laugh. “It was so dark and my lungs were on fire and I saw this light. For a second, I thought it was light from ‘the door to heaven’. That’s what my grandmother always said.”

He glances down to his lap again and then meets Sherlock’s steady gaze.

“I know it’s ridiculous.”

“No,” Sherlock stops him cold, “it isn’t.”

He rises from his seat on the ambulance bumper next to John to stoop before him. He takes the doctor’s chilled hands in his own warm ones and fixes his gaze on John. They each look into the other’s eyes, searching and asking. Sherlock leans in close and kisses John’s lips lightly. Resting their foreheads together as though they are one, he inhales deeply. John’s air, his breath, he is safe. 

“I’m glad it wasn’t,” Sherlock whispers reverently.

“Me too,” John replies quietly. A feeling of deep contentment slowly, steadily fills every inch of Sherlock’s body and his lips turn up. He feels lighter, tranquil, and like he was never meant to be anywhere or with anyone other than this man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you’re thinking. “Awwwwww, Jane, thank you. Thank you. We finally got the happy ending we’ve craved for so long.”
> 
> You bet your ass you did, and with little to no injuries too. Haha. See my Persistence series if you want to know why that should tickle your funny bone. Anyway, I kept you waiting for these last two chapters and just didn’t have the heart to keep stringing you along. That said, I know what else you’re thinking. 
> 
> “Damn you, Jane! Why didn’t John tell Sherlock he loves him?! He figured it out, didn’t he? WTF’s the holdup?” Heh heh heh. What indeed. 
> 
> Tune in next Sunday for the final chapter of KYFC, otherwise known as Kind Yodelers Fond of Coffee.😂  
> Same bat time. Same bat channel.  
> I'd love to see you all one last time before I go back into my cave to write some more.  
> Love, Jane
> 
> Sweet baby jesus. I forgot the questions. How could this happen? I'm surprised you all didn't think the evil empire finally found me and replaced me with a pod. Rest assured, I'm still me and no impostors have taken over. That said, here we go...  
> 1\. Jane. When. The fuck. Is John going to tell Sherlock he loves him??  
> 2\. Why didn't he tell him right then and there instead of just saying thank you?? And, WTF, John? 'Thank you'?!? I know, I know, he saved your life. Well, technically Greg saved your life, but 'thank you'??!!  
> 3\. What's going to happen now that it's all over? Will John move out of Sherlock's condo?  
> 4\. Will Sherlock stop him or just let him go?  
> 5\. WHAT ARE THESE TWO IDIOTS GOING TO DO NEXT?!?!  
> 6\. Are we going to get the happy ending we all want or are you going to go all Lady Jane of Angst and Pain on us and make a sequel to this one where they finally get together in the midst of some other mystery? HOLY SHIT, JANE, DON'T DO THAT!!!
> 
> I also forgot to thank my beautiful, wonderful beta, MyBreadAndButter. You have helped me hone my craft more than you know and no, I do not always do it just to please you. I like how it can help me paint a clearer picture of the characters, what they're doing, and what they're thinking. (She knows what I mean.)
> 
> Also, shout out to my ever-faithful friend, Purrfectlmt for the Lady Jane moniker. I love it! I feel the need to create some kind of sticker for my car that says exactly that. (You should see it - so many stickers because I can't help myself)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case is solved, the villains captured, but what of our dynamic duo?  
> Where does this leave them?  
> We shall soon see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all of you for your support and dedication, for going on this wonderful, mad journey with me into an AU I feel has been sadly neglected by Johnlockers. It has true potential, as I think we all see. This has been a joy, a true joy and I am so humbled and touched that all of you came along with me from beginning to end. I have to say I’m sorry to see this John and Sherlock go. I have grown to really like them, and the precious friendship between Sherlock and Molly. I think you’ll be seeing more of that from me in the future. Hopefully, I’ll be able to mix it up a bit so it doesn’t seem the same from one story to the next. Haha. 
> 
> Anyway, this is all stuff I should say at the end of the chapter. I’m getting ahead of myself, so I will stop and let you enjoy this last chapter.

****_Never knew I could feel like this. Like I’ve never seen the sky before._

_ Want to vanish inside your kiss.  _

_ Seasons may change, winter to spring, but I love you until the end of time. _

_\--Nicole Kidman & Ewan McGregor, Come What May_

Ten days have passed since Greg pulled John from the waters of Lake Erie. Their lives, and the whole of roller derby in Detroit and their division, were thrown into utter chaos that evening and things haven’t settled down one bit. The loss of a coach, and especially under these circumstances, does not sit well with the league board. The Demons’ season is immediately suspended and the team’s remaining bouts all forfeited. Every member of the team and staff is to be questioned in the coming days to determine level of involvement in the conspiracy.

The police have their own investigation as well and, oddly enough, the two entities have cooperated quite well with one another. Moriarty, Moran, Sarah Sawyer and Janine are all behind bars awaiting trial on a number of charges. Janine confessed first, her conscience getting the best of her. She laid out the plan as it began and explained how it changed over time. They had poisoned Dr. Wiggins and planted Anderson within Rock City, but Anderson had been an idiot. His attraction to Sally Donovan and subsequent removal from the position proved to be his undoing. John would not have been alone in Lake Erie, had the plan to murder him been successful.

After hearing of Janine’s confession, and accepting a deal that lessened the extent of the charges against her, Sarah confirmed all Janine had said. She also revealed more details and pointed the finger at five Demon skaters, one of which had poisoned Molly with a hidden needle in her wrist guard, just as Sherlock thought. They were all arrested and confessed, three of the five had been coerced into helping. Sarah even agreed to take police to the spot where Anderson was dropped into the lake.

Sherlock, John and Greg have not been able to rest since returning to the Metropark marina. Between additional police interviews and statements, and flying to DC on more than one occasion to be interviewed by the Board, they have had time for little else. Select others have been interviewed as well: Molly, Harry and other skaters who were injured, Dr. Wiggins and Mrs. Hudson, many of the Rock City staffers. To his credit, Sherlock has kept the Rollers on their winning streak throughout all of it. Just as John had said, they voted unanimously to refuse any resignation Sherlock might try to submit. Mrs. Hudson agreed wholeheartedly, scolded Sherlock for even considering it, and planted a motherly kiss on his cheek. He had rolled his eyes and grumbled, but John could tell how much it meant to him.

***

Exhausted, Sherlock stumbles into his condo and drops the duffle on his shoulder. The laptop bag on his other shoulder goes down more gingerly. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it by the door, noticing that John’s coat is no longer on the peg next to his. Of course. He had expected John would have moved out before his return. If he is honest, he thought John would be back at his own place within two days of Moriarty’s arrest, but he did not leave. Neither has he slept in Sherlock’s room. Granted, there has been a lot of traveling in the last ten days and not much time at home. Both he and John had to go to DC twice to appear in front of the Board, and they had also gone to St. Louis, Chicago and Memphis for bouts. Naturally, Moriarty’s plan had to blow up at the busiest traveling time in the season and Sherlock has no idea how long the Board’s investigation will last. At least they work their interviews around Rock City’s schedule. Just barely though. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, will see the team on a plane for Charlotte and then Raleigh. To top it all off, Sherlock had been summoned to DC a third time two days ago, leaving practices in the capable hands of Molly and Sally. 

Sherlock cracks his neck and debates upon checking in with them before trying to get some sleep. Packing his things for the morning and getting a shower before turning in would also be good. He sighs, his mind still lingering on something else. John is gone. He must be. It’s not like Sherlock will never see him again. He is still the team doctor. It just feels that way. An invisible finite end to it all. The same way his condo feels empty without that coat on the hook. He resists the urge to go into the spare bedroom and wallow in the scent John has left behind, but only just. Part of him wants to sleep in that bed tonight. A very big part.

Sherlock trudges into the kitchen, pops a flavor cup and mug into the coffee maker and turns it on. He rests his hands on the counter on either side of it and stares at it blankly as if it holds all the answers to the universe and everything. He had not wanted John to leave, but what was he to say? The danger has passed and they have only known one another a few months and yet… Sherlock huffs a mirthless laugh and scrubs his hands over his face. How could he ever expect John to stay? It’s absurd. How could Sherlock even ask him? How can he tell John he wants to spend his whole life with him and that they were always meant to be together when they are so new to all of this? God, he’s an idiot. None of it makes any sense in his head and yet, it makes perfect sense to him. It isn’t going to if he tries to say it out loud to John though. He shakes his head sorrowfully with a roll of his eyes. 

“I’m such an idiot,” Sherlock covers his face with his hands as his shoulders slump and he bows his head in defeat.

“I’m not saying I disagree,” a familiar voice says from the direction of the kitchen door, “but what specifically makes you an idiot this time?”

Sherlock’s head snaps up and he stands ramrod straight, looking into the crystal blue eyes of his wayward doctor. As if to punctuate his surprise, the coffee maker pings cheerfully to signal its cup is ready. John laughs softly and walks into the room, a white grocery bag hanging from his left hand. His eyes still on the startled coach, John sidles up to the counter and sets the bag next to the coffee maker.

“I thought you’d be gone,” Sherlock says in utter befuddlement.

“I was,” John smiles brightly. “I went to the market.”

“That’s not..” Sherlock’s expression finally returns to normal as his brain works through the shock. He narrows his eyes and looks at John wryly. “I thought you would have moved out by now. Obvious.”

“Oh, right,” John takes a short step back, suddenly much less sure of himself. Sherlock is screaming inside.

_ What the fuck are you doing, you idiot! _

“I didn’t think… I should have done straight away, of course,” John stumbles over the words, losing his sure footing. “I got comfortable, I guess.”

“Right,” the word springs from Sherlock’s lips. He cannot seem to put together coherent thoughts or words and keeps saying the stupidest things possible. In the meantime. Every word he utters is sure to push John away. God, he really **is** an idiot.

“Right,” John parrots, his upper lip disappearing beneath the lower one.

An awkward silence hangs in the air between them as Sherlock struggles for words, wanting to physically kick himself. His mind feels like it is running overtime and he still cannot put what he wants to say to John into words. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out and he just furrows his brow instead. John nods ever so slightly and reaches for the grocery bag on the counter.

“I’ll just put these away, shall I?” Without waiting for an answer, John shuffles to a cupboard and places a box of his favorite tea bags inside. Then he moves to the refrigerator and puts a carton of milk and a few apples. The doctor loves the fruit, but will only eat it if it is cold. Sherlock tilts his head and cannot stop himself from silently marveling at how well he has come to know John’s idiosyncrasies in such a short time. John knows his too and they only seem to have made him more fond of Sherlock.

“I’ll be in my room,” John’s voice pulls him back from his reverie. “I’ll just pack. You’re right, I should have gone already. I mean, it’s all over, isn’t it?”

John disappears around the corner and Sherlock’s tense body immediately goes slack. He face palms with one hand and props himself up on the counter with the other. 

_ Jesus Christ. Idiot. Idiot!  _

Sherlock turns toward the counter, pulls the coffee mug from the appliance and takes a sip. Frustration seeps from every pore. He resolutely does not want John to leave. Ever. Yet here he is more or less throwing him out. For whatever reason, John has not gone and does not seem to have any interest in doing so. Sherlock is not sure why, so he takes another sip and examines the evidence. John is definitely in love with him, but does he know it? Unclear. Although John was quite affectionate as they sailed back to Metropark, they have had no real physical contact or tender moments since they stepped off Greg’s boat. That would seem to indicate a desire to leave Sherlock’s condo or at least keep his distance if he stays. Maybe the doctor wants to be roommates like in those absurd sitcoms on NBC.

_ What the hell are you doing? Talk to him. _

Sherlock sighs and sips the coffee again. He lets his eyes slip closed as the warm liquid slides down his throat, soothing and spreading comfort through his weary body. His chest feels noticeably warmer as the liquid passes through to settle in his stomach. He has eaten nothing but airline food, which is usually deplorable, since lunchtime and suddenly John’s homemade chili sounds absolutely delicious. Sherlock nearly moans at the thought and he tries not to visualize the two of them making the chili, cuddling on the couch, reading to one another or watching one of those awful spy movies John likes. Sherlock does not succeed in this endeavor. Not even a little. He sighs again and takes another sip of coffee, telling himself that the warmth spreading through him now is just from the hot liquid. 

“The thing is,” John’s voice sounds loud in the quiet room. Sherlock’s grey eyes pop open to see him standing just inside the door. John’s body is tense, every muscle tight as ripcord. “I don’t want to go.”

Sherlock lowers the mug from his lips, his gaze locked on John. The doctor takes a hesitant step and swallows hard.

“I’d like to stay,” John eyes him with uncertainty, searching for a hint of approval. “I want to stay.”

“Of course,” Sherlock splutters, recovering his wits. He is nodding a little too quickly. “You may stay as long as you like. I can arrange to have your things moved, if you like.”

“I don’t want to move into the spare bedroom,” John says without preamble.

“Oh?” Sherlock’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. Then his brows rise to the curls hanging down from his hairline, realization dawning. “Oh.”

The room is quiet. The two men stare at one another. Sherlock cannot believe, cannot allow himself to think John is saying what Sherlock so wants him to be saying. He must be misinterpreting the words. John must mean something else. Could he really be that brave? Sherlock looks at the doctor, lips parted and eyes wide. John could mean nothing else.

“Sherlock, we need to talk,” John says without looking away, though Sherlock can tell he would like to. “I’ve been meaning to, wanting to, but with all the traveling and confusion… I let it get away from me.”

“Erm,” Sherlock feels off balance. His mind that is always rapidly winding its way through thoughts, strategies and plans grinds to a halt. John wants to move into Sherlock’s room.  **With** Sherlock. Has John figured it out? Sherlock dares not hope. He opens his mouth and remains silent, his vocal chords seemingly unable to vibrate and his mind struggling to turn its gears again. He swallows, trying to revive his dry throat. ”I...don’t know what to say.”

_ Oh, god. You idiot. Tell him you love the idea. Tell him you love him. _

“Why don’t you let me do the talking?” John inches into the room. His hands are clenched at his sides, his movements stilted and anxious. He straightens his fingers and clenches them again, this time glancing at the floor for a split second. When he looks back at Sherlock, his eyes are resolute with a decision made.

“I… I haven’t done or said anything before now because I didn’t want you to think it was out of gratitude or some sense of obligation for saving my life,” John begins, his face open and sincere. “It’s nothing like that. I mean, I’m glad you found me, and brought Greg, and had such a brilliant bloody plan.”

“It was an awful plan,” Sherlock interjects in a clipped tone, placing his coffee mug on the counter and gesturing with one hand. “It was all I could think of under the circumstances.”

“Maybe, but it worked,” John insists.

“Moriarty is unpredictable, John,” Sherlock chides, shaking his head doubtfully. “There were so many variables.”

“Sherlock,” John warns.

“Any one of them could have changed everything,” the mad coach continues.

“They didn’t,” John interrupts, crossing the space between them and stepping right up into Sherlock’s personal space. He takes Sherlock’s hands in his own and Sherlock goes quiet in surprise. John’s hands are so warm and soft, the pads of his thumbs pressing into Sherlock’s palms gently. A small crackling sensation starts low in his belly and he cannot take his eyes off John. “I’m very glad you took the chance. You and Greg, but that’s not why I want to move in for good.”

“For good?” Sherlock leans back a bit to study John. He wrinkles his brow and watches as John’s expression melts into that of a man looking at something utterly adorable, like a puppy. Sherlock is  **not** adorable. He makes a mental note to speak with John about it later. He will not interrupt this moment. John gives his hands a squeeze and answers Sherlock’s mumbled question:

“Yeah, if you’ll have me.”

Without much thought, Sherlock cocks a sharp brow that says it all. John laughs. 

“I know, I know,” John chuckles, but sobers quickly. “I just don’t want to take anything for granted.”

He bites his bottom lip and looks down at their joined hands. John moves his thumbs over the soft, pale skin and raises his sparkling eyes to Sherlock’s, conveying a depth of emotion that Sherlock can feel in his very soul.

“I decided so many things about myself long ago and just assumed they would never change, and they didn’t,” John shakes his head ever so slightly, “until I met you. It all changed. I don’t know when it started, but I can think of a dozen times right before all this happened when I should have known. I haven’t said because I really don’t want you to think it’s because you saved me like you did. It’s so much more important than that. You have to understand.”

The final few sentences he says in earnest, squeezing Sherlock’s hands as he does so. The coach searches his eyes and face. He knows exactly what John is talking about, but he has to hear him say it. It won’t feel real if John doesn’t say it out loud. Sherlock’s heart skips a beat and his eyes widen a fraction. Sherlock tries not to break into a foolish grin, but the corners of his mouth are already turning up of their own volition.

“What, John?” he asks with the spark of excitement in his voice. “What’s changed?”

“You have to understand,” John repeats and begins explaining with a shrug. He releases Sherlock’s hands in favor of putting one on his own hip and ruffling the hair on the nape of his neck with the other. As John speaks, he lifts Sherlock’s mug without thinking and takes a drink before placing it back on the counter. Never does he take his eyes off Sherlock. It is like he believes them under a spell that will break if they look away from one another. “I liked everyone I dated and was certainly attracted to them. I just didn’t... **feel** this way about them. I didn’t love them. I didn’t think I could love anyone.”

John pauses to wet his lips. Sherlock, still fighting an excited grin, nearly loses his composure at John’s expression. It lies somewhere between an earnest plea that Sherlock understand him and utter terror that he will.

“You’re different, Sherlock. You’re so different,” John says insistently. “You mean so much to me. You mean everything. I… I love you, Sherlock. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to figure it out. I’m just such an idiot. I can reason through a million different things in seconds, but not that. Not my own feelings for you, or I couldn’t, but now… Now I know. I love you.”

As soon as the words are out, all of the tension visibly drains from John’s body like water through a sieve. Looking relieved, he regards Sherlock with soft eyes and a crooked smile. Sherlock feels the grin he has tried so valiantly to hide, curl his lips as he marvels at John. Instead of being nervous or frazzled by the confession he just made, John seems more relaxed than Sherlock has seen in a long time. He deduces that all the uncertainty of having feelings for Sherlock but not knowing what they were had been a heavy burden on John’s shoulders. Knowing it himself and now having it out in the open, has made John positively giddy and Sherlock loves him for it.

“John,” his deep voice catches and he feels a pricking in the corners of his eyes. John places his hands on Sherlock’s forearms as if to hold them both steady.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John repeats emphatically, his voice bubbling with excited energy. “I want to be with you and never leave your side or your flat or the team. I want to be yours.”

He stops abruptly in much the same way Sherlock has while making such declarations and it warms Sherlock’s heart. The very words themselves had flown from John’s lips with such speed that they clearly got the better of him and he said far more than intended. Of course, Sherlock doesn’t mind at all and John seems to have picked up on it because the fear that was in his eyes has gone, replaced by affection and elation. 

“If you’ll have me, of course,” John completes the thought with a cheeky wink.

Sherlock lets himself grin from ear to ear, but only for a moment before fixing John with a haughty gaze and pulling his arms free of John’s grasp.

“Really, John, you are an idiot,” he says sharply. “For someone who is so ‘bloody brilliant’ you are incredibly stupid. You should have arrived at this conclusion as soon as you moved in.”

“Oh, yeah?” John huffs a laugh and reaches for the man’s hips. “And what makes you think that?”

“I don’t think, John. I know,” Sherlock stares him down with a glare that has no heat and lets himself be pulled closer. He keeps his arms crossed over his chest and looks down at John imperiously. “All the necessary data was there, but like Mrs. Hudson, you see…”

“But do not observe?” John asks him with a knowing smirk and nudges at Sherlock’s arms, but they remain steadfast.

“Of course in your case, you didn’t even see it,” Sherlock adds in mock consideration. “You just barreled on, ignoring it entirely. Very shortsighted for a person of your intelligence.”

“All right, all right,” John laughs fondly and pulls the lanky coach close. Their hips press together and Sherlock encircles John with his long arms, grinning down at him. John matches it, but then quickly tries for serious again. He does not pull it off in any sense and looks so adorable trying that Sherlock’s heart gives a squeeze.

“So,” John begins, still trying to chase away the smile from his own face, “do you think you can manage living with my egregious lapses in judgment? I know it’ll be difficult to cope. Should I pack my things?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums, tilting his head and pretending to consider John carefully. “I’ll muddle through. No sense in turning you out. I’m sure you can be taught.”

John huffs a laugh as he snakes a hand up Sherlock’s chest to cup the taller man’s cheek. 

“I count myself lucky for that,” he says as he closes the gap for a chaste kiss. Sherlock feels every nerve tingle like electricity racing through his body. God, how he has longed for this moment. To kiss John with all his love, all his emotion and have John feel it for him in return. It is heaven on earth.

Sherlock chases John’s mouth when he starts to pull away and flicks his tongue quickly over John’s lips when he catches them. John hums in approval and raises his other hand to hold both sides of Sherlock’s face. The man imitates the posture and peppers John’s lips with kisses before settling into a long, wet one. Filled with promise, Sherlock teases John’s mouth open and their tongues slide together.

John deepens the kiss, his left hand now buried in Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock licks inside, eager to taste and claim. They have done this before, but now John is truly his and it is like the first time. It is delicious. There are no doubts or questions between them. John knows he loves Sherlock. He said it. Out loud. Sherlock’s body feels so light and every nerve tingles with the press of a thousand needles. It should be unpleasant, really, like when an appendage falls asleep, but it is exhilarating and Sherlock welcomes it. It makes it all real. Sherlock is not going to wake up the way he has dozens of times before. This is really happening.

Their kisses growing heated now, Sherlock’s hands skim down John’s spine. He squirms under the feather-light touch, a ticklish spot to tuck away for the future. Sherlock’s palms come to rest on John’s ass, his fingers giving the right cheek a light pinch. John smiles against Sherlock’s lips.

“You like my ass,” he chuckles and nips.

“Damn right I do,” Sherlock replies in a husky tone and gives John’s lower lip a suck. 

“That’s all right,” John growls, his eyes growing dark. “I like yours too.”

He slides his hands around Sherlock’s back and spreads his fingers over both luscious cheeks. He gives them a squeeze. He has not yet had the pleasure or the opportunity to property address his fascination with Sherlock’s luxurious backside and the lanky coach is more than happy to let him indulge. Sherlock most certainly wants a chance at John’s body too. Mmmm, what John said is true. He is no Greek god, but he is far from ordinary. He is beautiful and his physique is perfectly glorious in Sherlock’s eyes. He wants to touch it and kiss it,  **all** of it. He wants to worship every inch of it. 

“Oh god, I wanna sink my teeth into it,” John nearly moans, smearing a messy kiss over Sherlock’s lips as he kneads his lovely ass. Sherlock kisses back just as hot and wet. John says something else, but Sherlock is lost in his own mind with visions of John’s naked form spread out before him. He drinks in all the skin he can touch and suck and kiss. A full body shudder overtakes him when he thinks about letting a stray finger slip between John buttocks...or his tongue. 

Sherlock’s vision snaps back into focus and his body goes stiff.  **Every** part of his body, and John is seconds away from realizing it. He panics for a moment, wondering if he should pull away before it is too late. John may have confessed his love, but he did not specify the rate at which things would move forward. It is true that they had sex in Baltimore, but Sherlock does not want to assume…

“Stop thinking,” John mutters, pulling Sherlock close and looking into his eyes. “I can  **hear** you thinking.”

John grins as he holds the coach steady while he presses a passionate kiss to his full lips. Sherlock melts into it, his mind and body turning to jelly. Well, not all of his body. A quiet noise of surprise escapes John’s lips when Sherlock’s burgeoning erection presses into his hip. A jolt of exhilaration and lust rushes through them, renewing the heat of their kisses. It is maddening and fucking spectacular all at once. God, they can’t move fast enough.

John begins nudging this way and that until he is a few steps from Sherlock’s bedroom. He kicks the door open wide when they reach it. The kisses don’t stop as they move. Nothing stops. Their hands are grasping and clutching and holding close until Sherlock fists his fingers in John’s sweater and pulls it over his head. John drops his arms again as soon as the article of clothing is free of them. He holds the nape of Sherlock’s neck with one of them as he licks into the man’s mouth. Sherlock returns it just as fervently, their tongues sliding together, tracing teeth and lips. Sherlock holds either side of John’s waist with an iron grip. He wants to hold even tighter and never let go, to always be at the side of this amazing man. The pad of a finger strays onto a narrow patch of skin left exposed by a t-shirt that rucks up from John’s jeans. Unable to resist, Sherlock grabs at the hem of the tee with both hands and pulls the soft fabric up to John’s chest. The doctor breaks free from the kisses to look at Sherlock with blown pupils full of desire. They are still for a moment, looking into one another’s burning eyes, blinking slowly and taking in every detail. 

His gaze not straying from Sherlock’s thin grey irises, John slowly raises his arms over his head. Sherlock wets his lips and lifts the shirt just as slowly over John’s head and arms and hands and drops it to the floor. Then he traces down John’s arms with unhurried fingertips, watching the blue of his eyes grow smaller and smaller until only a sliver remains. His fingers continue to trace over the muscles of John’s chest and stomach before he doubles back to rest his palms on John’s pectorals. John lowers his own arms in a fluid motion, fingers skimming down his back and places his hands on either side of Sherlock’s slim waist. He shuffles back again and bumps into Sherlock’s tall bed.

“What the hell?” John snickers, trying to look back at it. “The mattress is as tall as a table. Perfect for sitting on?”

Sherlock does not have an answer for John’s joke, so he shrugs and lets out a quiet laugh without breaking eye contact. 

“Seriously, why the hell is it so high?” John continues in a jocular tone. “Something to do with your mile-long legs?”

“There are drawers under it,” Sherlock shrugs again after a moment, leaning in to place a soft kiss on John’s throat before straightening his neck to look at John. “I need the storage space.”

The doctor bursts out laughing, closing his eyes and gently swatting at the coach with his left hand. When he opens them again, it is to see a very indignant Sherlock staring back and John tries to hide his grin. He fails, of course, his face is so bright and merry it could light the sky. His conductor of light.

“What?” Sherlock asks, affronted. “I keep extra skates and gear in them.”

“No, no. Of course you do. It makes perfect sense,” John looks at him fondly, a wide smile stretching his lips. “God, I love you.”

He kisses Sherlock once softly and then lowers himself to sit on the bed. John reaches for him and slowly opens the buttons of his shirt, one by one, never taking his eyes off Sherlock’s. When John reaches the last one above the waistband of his bespoke charcoal trousers, he pushes the fabric open to reveal Sherlock’s pale chest and stomach. John leans in to lick a stripe over the left nipple while gently pinching the right. Sherlock moans and keens at the light touch of his rather unexpected ministrations. Jesus, it’s amazing. He cards his fingers through John’s short, blonde hair and throws his head back when John bites gently at his nipple.

“Oh god, John,” Sherlock gasps. “Don’t stop.”

John chuckles low and gravelly as he continues and it’s all Sherlock can do to keep his toes from curling in his shoes. When John does stop, he looks into Sherlock’s eyes and pulls at his body gently, gesturing backward toward the headboard. Sherlock’s lips curl into a half smile and he nods minutely. John shifts back as Sherlock leans forward and places his hands on the bed on either side of John. He raises a knee and plants it on John’s left side, the other on the right side and he crawls up and onto his doctor. With a sensuous smile on his lips and half-lidded eyes, John rests his back on the soft mattress and Sherlock works his way up the man’s body, straddling his hips. He kisses along John’s jawline and licks the shell of his ear with the tip of his tongue. John squirms under his touch. Another ticklish spot to store away in his mind palace. Exploring John’s body is becoming very interesting to say the least. 

Sherlock moves to John’s neck and collar bones, licking his way from one side to the other. He licks into the suprasternal notch and then rests his head against John’s chest. The smooth skin is soft on his cheek and he inhales deeply. Sherlock has never felt more comfortable or more at ease with anyone in his life. It is mind boggling and absolutely perfect. He raises his head to rest his chin on John’s chest and meets his eyes.

“How did you come to me?” Sherlock whispers, shaking his head slightly. “I was certain I would never love again.”

He tilts his head and looks at John with a thoughtful expression. The doctor gazes back and brushes the curls from Sherlock’s forehead with gentle fingers. 

“After Victor,” Sherlock sighs heavily, a note of sorrow creeping into his tone, “I vowed to never give my heart to anyone again. Then I walked into Greg’s office and there you were. My stomach flipped just at the sight of you.”

“What? You’re not serious,” John huffs an incredulous laugh. “No, you’re having me on. You avoided me for days. Weeks. I was convinced you didn’t like me at all.”

“I  **did** like you, John, and that is precisely why I avoided you,” Sherlock replies almost accusingly. “I was trying to keep my distance and stay out of trouble.”

“Yeah, well, a valiant effort,” John chuckles with a knowing glint in his eye. He brushes that errant curl away from Sherlock’s forehead again. “Didn’t work though, did it?”

“No,” Sherlock says simply.

“And that’s… good?”John hesitates, suddenly unsure of Sherlock’s meaning. Unacceptable.

“Very good,” Sherlock lowers his voice an octave and fixes John with a searing gaze that both disarms the doctor and convinces him that Sherlock’s answer is true. 

John’s shoulders, in fact his whole body, relaxes into the mattress and he smiles up at Sherlock. He hides nothing, his face is completely open. Sherlock studies him a moment, just to make sure everything is right, because he has to know and he can’t stop himself. He can see in John’s eyes that he knows what Sherlock is doing and he nods, every so slightly, his approval. 

Sherlock reads him in an instant and sees love so deep, it could hold the ocean and still not fill up, and John knows. He knows what he feels and that Sherlock loves him back, and he is not frightened in the least. Sherlock leans more heavily into the muscles and flesh of John’s chest again, suddenly overwhelmed by his deductions. He takes a deep, grounding breath and focuses on nothing in particular over John’s left shoulder. His nerves must show because John cups his face gently and strokes his thumb over a cheekbone.

“It’s okay,” John whispers into the space between them. “There is no time table here. We do things at our own pace. I won’t push. I know what I said...about wanting to stay, but if it’s too fast… I’ll go back to my place, if you want.”

“You most certainly will not,” Sherlock announces in a petulant and forbidding tone with an expression to match. He lifts himself to prop on his elbows and glares down at John.

“Okay, okay,” John laughs. “I get it. You want me to...stay.”

The last word comes out slowly as John traces Sherlock’s cheekbone with great care, gentle affection on his face. Sherlock flashes a small, but brilliant smile and lowers his head to catch John’s lips with his own. The kiss is unhurried, not at all like the ones they shared before, but it is no less passionate. Love radiates from one man to the other like heat and both have a heady feeling when they part.

“This is your bed now,” Sherlock breathes and god, he can’t wait to spend a whole night in it with John. Tonight and every night after, and each one will feel like the first time all over again. He can see it in his mind palace. The two of them tucked under the blankets, resting their heads on one another, talking and kissing and touching.

“ **Our** bed,” John’s soft voice pulls Sherlock from his reverie just as it was becoming interesting. He looks into John’s eyes and sees a promise meant only for him. A warm feeling moves slowly through his body, beginning where John’s thumb still touches his cheekbone. It is like the point of light in Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It has brought Sherlock out of the darkness and back to life.

Sherlock covers John’s hand with his own and tilts his head into the touch. He is calm, serene, and it is a new feeling for him. Sherlock typically has a thousand things rolling around in his head and that constant state of motion, fluid though it is, comes with a certain degree of tension. That is when it hits him: His mind is clear. Not blank, not at all. Everything is still there in the great room of his mind palace, the room that acts as the meeting point for all of his thoughts, but it’s...clear...and quiet. Every thought is neatly stored and no one item, or group of items, screams for his attention. He is free. His mind is free. Free to focus on John, only John.

John.

Sherlock turns his head into John’s hand as he holds it close and presses a gentle kiss to his palm. He blinks once slowly and does not move a muscle. Neither does John as he stares back into steady grey eyes. They gaze at one another for an untold amount of time. Sherlock spends a great deal of it soaking in the many shades of blue in John’s eyes and naming them. Some are obvious: cerulean, oxford, cobalt, Persian, sapphire, and pale blue. Some he has never seen before and names himself: captain blue, sea salt, Hamish. Sherlock chuckles softly at the humor of the last one and John tilts his head curiously.

“What?” John asks with an answering grin and then jokes. “Something on my nose?”

“No,” Sherlock laughs again, “nothing like that. It’s just...you. I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe I’m letting myself do this again. I know, I know.”

He shifts an arm to put a finger on John’s lips when he makes to object. Sherlock fixes him with a serious eye, his mouth drawn into a thin line. 

“I shouldn’t compare you to him, or this relationship to that one, but it’s so hard,” Sherlock sighs and slides off of John’s body. Lying on his side flush against John, Sherlock props up on one elbow and rests his head on his hand, leaving his other hand to stroke John’s chest in smooth patterns. “I collect data, John. You’ve seen me do it. I’ve done it to you. It’s in my nature to compare and contrast that data.”

“Sherlock, that’s okay. That’s you,” John folds an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, to hold him gently to his naked torso. The skin exposed by Sherlock’s open shirt touches John’s and it is delicious, hot and smooth. “If you have done it to me then you know I am nothing like Victor, and could never be.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John holds up a finger this time and gives him a very serious look, brows raised like an actor who has messed up his line and is trying to keep everyone else from laughing so they can continue filming.

“No, no, okay?” John says by way of keeping Sherlock quiet. There is a short pause between them as they both look into one another’s eyes. “You say you compare and contrast it. I think you’ll see more differences than similarities in me and our relationship, and it’ll work in our favor. Hopefully.”

He adds the last word with some hesitation and an awkward smile. Sherlock rests his hand on John’s head, stroking through his short hair. He wears a fond expression, one corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Absolutely,” Sherlock tells him with assurance. “You bear no resemblance whatsoever. It’s just…”

He stops, paused in time. He cannot tear his eyes from John’s deep blue gaze. So honest and open, and also concerned. His forehead is wrinkled and his brows are still raised as he waits for Sherlock to find the words.

“I vowed I would never love again. I’ve spent years blocking out romantic love and emotion. I had a plan for my life,” he explains in earnest, “and then you happened.”

They are both silent. The words hang in the air around them and John’s expression is unreadable. Or is it? John almost looks nervous, but surely that can’t be. Sherlock is the one confessing his fears. Well, not fears...his past. Everything he decided long ago when he was still hurt and bleeding, when he thought love would only bring him pain. That was all changed the moment he met John and now Sherlock looks ahead to their future together with a hope and excitement he thought he would never have. He just can’t seem to find the words to say it. Sherlock wrinkles his own brow in frustration.

“And that’s... good?” John’s voice rises more than normal at the question and Sherlock frowns. None of this is working. He is trying to explain himself and is only making things worse. He must find the words to put John’s concerns, concerns  **he** stirred up in the first place, to rest.

“Very good. Fantastic,” Sherlock says quickly. Too quickly and he still sees the doubt in John’s eyes. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

He tilts his head in his hand and rests the other on John’s chest again as he looks him in the eye. His breath catches as he tries to continue. He can feel the beat of John’s heart beneath his palm, strong and sure. It’s steadiness keeps this man alive and Sherlock with him.

“I felt something for you immediately,” the words tumble from Sherlock’s lips and he is not even sure where they are coming from because his mind feels blissfully empty, save John. ”That’s no secret. I tried to resist, but it was a hopeless endeavor, and then it filled me and my soul. After that it became a battle with myself to  **not** express my feelings.”

“Not express them?” John looks at Sherlock straight on, confusion plain on his face. “Why wouldn’t you just tell me? Why hide it like that?”

“I didn’t want to frighten you off,” Sherlock shrugs, looking at him meaningfully. “You were determined you couldn’t love anyone and it was all so new between us. I knew you would run if I announced that I loved you, if for no other reason than to keep me from being hurt.”

John’s brows lower with his narrowing eyes. His lips press into a thin line with down-turned ends. Sherlock can see his warring thoughts in the lines on his face. John used to be so guarded and Sherlock could seldom deduce him after that first day, but more recently, since Baltimore, John has let Sherlock see and know more. Now is no exception as John debates between denying Sherlock’s assertion or agreeing with it.

John opens his mouth to protest. His eyes are sharp and his brow knitted in disapproval. He inhales, readying to speak the denial on his lips, and then his expression softens. He lets his shoulders sink back into the mattress as the tension in his muscles loosens.

“Fuck,” John mutters, looking down at Sherlock’s hand still resting on his chest. “You’re probably right,” he looks up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I probably would have.”

The corners of John’s mouth curl up slightly, but his eyes look pained and regretful. It is a sad smile he wears and Sherlock wants to kiss it away. He slides his hand down to touch John’s arm almost shyly and John’s face brightens. He blinks slowly, just once, his blue gaze on Sherlock. John’s smile grows as he brushes that same wayward curl off of Sherlock’s forehead and looks at him fondly. 

“For the record, when you did say it, it was good. Brilliant. I couldn’t believe my luck,” John beams, even as Sherlock gives him a haughty shake of his head.

“You didn’t believe me,” he retorts, swatting John’s bicep.

“Can you blame me?” John asks in a defensive tone. “We’d only just met and...and you’re you.”

“What?” Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “What are you talking about?”

“And I’m me,” John continues without acknowledging the question.

“John Watson,” Sherlock stops him in a commanding tone, “are you implying that I am ‘out of your league’?”

“Well,” John swallows and pulls back a bit for a better look at Sherlock, hesitant and pensive. “Yeah, actually.”

Sherlock huffs.

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” he straightens his long neck to gaze down at John imperiously. “That is utter nonsense. What on earth would lead you to that conclusion?”

“Oh, come on,” John snarks. “You’re beautiful.”

“And you are a golden-skinned surfer with a brilliant mind,” the coach quips. “Honestly, John, you do not do yourself justice.”

“All right, maybe,” John remarks hastily, shifting his body restlessly. “What I meant to say is that once you did tell me how you felt, I didn’t know what to say, but I was glad you told me. I did feel lucky and happy. However confused I was about my own feelings, it made me feel…” 

John hesitates and glances away from Sherlock’s face to pale chest, biting his lower lip and second guessing himself. Sherlock gives his arm a squeeze of reassurance to let John know that he can always speak his mind without worry. John sighs deeply, still not raising his eyes.

“This is going to sound stupid,” John finally looks at him with soulful eyes. “It made me feel...well, warm. And safe and...free somehow. That’s the exact opposite of how I’ve felt in literally every other relationship I’ve been in. I knew it was something different, but I just couldn’t wrap my head around what it was.”

“I knew you loved me,” Sherlock confesses and then adds. “Before you told me.”

“What?” John’s gaze is on him now, unwavering. He wears a critical frown and his face is scrunched up in a way that usually precedes grumpiness. God, why did Sherlock even say that?

“But I had no way of knowing whether or not you would realize it,” the words pop from his mouth before he can stop them. John’s frown deepens. What the hell is Sherlock doing? Is forcing an argument really the best way to spend their first night in their bed?

“Wait, what?” John asks again, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“And then Moriarty took you.” Jesus Christ, is there no way to stop this outpouring of idiocy? What is wrong with him? Sherlock fidgets in John’s arms, pulling away and thinking about how quickly he can dash into the bathroom.

“Sherlock, stop. Stop,” John curls his arm tighter around Sherlock’s shoulders and lays a hand on his bicep, both regain his attention and keep him from running. They meet eyes once again and Sherlock notices that John’s are soft and searching, not at all like the growing annoyance he expected to see. “You knew I loved you, but didn’t think I would figure it out? You didn’t think I’d return your feelings?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers honestly. No point in denying anything now. John lets out a quick breath, almost like sigh but with a sound of dismay to it.

“And you were just going to resign yourself to that?” his tone is light, as though tip-toeing around a subject that would make Sherlock suddenly realize what a fool he had been to pin his hopes on John. As if anything could ward him away from this man.

“I wasn’t resigning myself to anything,” Sherlock snaps defensively. “You had expressed your interest and clearly cared for me. It was only a matter of your own self-realization.”

“Right,” John replies unconvinced. 

Sherlock gives a frustrated sigh and resolutely ignores the doctor’s skepticism as he trails a hand down John’s sleek chest to his belly, coming to rest on his belt buckle. John shivers, but does not lower his eyes or even glance away from Sherlock’s.

“It doesn’t matter now anyway,” Sherlock announces with certainty. “You did realize it.”

John is still staring and silent.

“Problem?” the taller man asks, beginning to wonder how they got on this subject and wishing they hadn’t if John is going to look at him like that.

“What? No. No, I guess not,” John replies almost absently. He has the distinct appearance of someone trying to organize a great many thoughts. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to settle.”

“Settle?” Sherlock repeats in an incredulous tone.

“Yeah,” John confirms. “For the likes of me.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock says dismissively, sitting up in the bed.

“I’m serious,” John sits up and turns his body to face him fully, bending his legs and tucking one under the other. “If I had never pulled my head out of my ass… Sherlock, why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, John, I am,” Sherlock tries to stifle his mirth, but still giggles in between every other word. “The very idea that being with you is ‘settling’ is such nonsense.”

John’s frown grows as he watches Sherlock continue to laugh at his expense. The taller man shakes his head and places a hand on John’s naked chest. The skin is warm to his cool fingers and palm, and his heart flutters behind his ribs. His laughter finally fades and the eyes he casts upon John have a solemnity they had not before.

“You are the kindest, bravest and wisest man I have ever known. To see that as settling for anything is preposterous. I would stay by your side with a smile on my face until the world ends,” Sherlock cuts off his voice with the snap of his mouth closing, but not quickly enough.

Jesus Christ, he really is an idiot. That sounded like nothing less than a marriage proposal or at the very least, ‘I’m fully committed to you. Let’s stay together forever’. For god’s sake, he just told John he  **didn’t** want to drive him away. So the next natural step is to, of course, bring up the desire for a life-long relationship.

_ Fuck. _

Sherlock closes his eyes slowly as the full magnitude of his stupidity washes over him. He wants to jump off the bed, lock himself into the nearest room  _ master bath _ , and disappear into his mind palace for at least a month. Frankly, he is surprised John hasn’t beaten him to it. Seems like the appropriate response for what he just blurted. That’s when Sherlock realizes that John has not moved. Not an inch. In fact, there is a gentle pressure on Sherlock’s knee like John is actually touching him instead of fleeing. It is warm and welcoming, and exudes no hesitance or awkwardness.

Armed with that knowledge, and curious as hell, Sherlock opens his eyes to see John still sitting before him. He wears a small and somewhat disbelieving, but pleased smile. The hand on Sherlock’s knee gives a little squeeze that actually tickles. He suppresses the urge to jerk away or move at all, wanting to hide the ticklish spot from John. He has observed a few such areas on John’s body and wants to keep the upper hand. Unfortunately, his efforts seem to be in vain because John’s expression does nothing less than advertise the fact that he knows exactly what he has just found. Aside from that, John’s face is difficult to interpret.

“John,” Sherlock begins abruptly, set upon laughing this off or explaining it away.

“Really?” John interrupts in a quiet tone that brims with anticipation and...hope?

Sherlock frowns and fixes John with a probing gaze, presenting the polar opposite of what is going on in his mind. His mind palace has just run completely off the rails with joy. He would be leaping through the air as ticker tape fell from above if he didn’t feel the need to maintain a cool and collected exterior until he can suss this out. Sherlock takes a moment to consider John’s demeanor, posture and this one word he has uttered. He cannot believe what is found: 

Against all odds, John is pleased,  **pleased** by Sherlock’s verbal diarrhea. 

Sherlock blinks once, twice, a third time. His body is entirely still. He cannot believe his ears and must be dreaming. This conversation cannot be real, but it is. Energy and electricity pulse through Sherlock’s body with frightening speed as excitement fills his veins and threatens to burst from their thin walls. He wants nothing more than to throw his arms open wide and shout to the heavens that John Watson wants to spend his entire life with him, Sherlock Holmes, but he must remain calm and rational now. He doesn’t want to overwhelm John and has to pace himself.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers honestly, his eyes widening as he does. That is not at all what he had planned to say. Paralyzed, his surprise so complete he cannot even berate himself for this slip-up. He simply watches John with trepidation and regret. God, why didn’t he just lie? He could have said any number of things, the least of which was ‘Hell, yeah, I meant it’.

Sherlock is about to close his eyes a second time, but does not. Instead, they widen further as the corners of John’s mouth turn up into a big and very genuine smile. John’s thumb slides smoothly back and forth over Sherlock’s knee, and light dances in his blue eyes.

“Me too,” John says in a voice so sincere that the words jet straight into Sherlock’s soul and his heart swells with a kind of joy he could never conceive of without this man. He has found it. His perfect puzzle piece, as his mother used to say. Molly calls it the other half of his heart. His lobster. Wait, what? Goddamn those absurd NBC sitcoms for entering his psyche! 

Whatever the label, he and John were meant to be.

Without another thought, Sherlock’s hand raises to touch John’s cheek deftly. He nearly jerks with the jolt of electricity that whizzes through his body anew and nearly snatches his hand back at the shock of it. He silently marvels at it. Its surprise and pleasure, its comfort. How can just one touch mean so much? Sherlock almost laughs at himself. He is handling John more carefully than anything in his life and apparently, John finds it just as amusing.

“I won’t break,” the doctor chuckles quietly. His hand on Sherlock’s knee is warmer than ever now. The flesh beneath his trousers simmers at the touch of it. Sherlock huffs a breath.

“I know. It’s just…” he wets his lips. Every inch of Sherlock’s body tingles with anticipation and desire, but he holds his hand steady. He sighs, damn near frustration. “God, I want to touch you. I want all of you.”

“I want that too,” John gazes deeply into those grey eyes and leans forward to graze his lips over Sherlock’s, eliciting a gasp from the coach. “So come and get me.”

He slides his hand up Sherlock’s long thigh, stopping dangerously close to his groin. Sherlock gasps again as his body tingles and tenses. John’s lips quirk up and he slides his hand up over Sherlock’s belt to the skin exposed by his open shirt. He sighs when he rests his fingertips against Sherlock’s belly and an undisguised shiver runs through John’s body.

“John,” the name comes out in a quiet rush of breath. Sherlock’s hand lifts of its own volition and cradles John’s cheek. The doctor leans into the touch, his sparkling eyes speaking to Sherlock as clearly as any words could. 

_ Yes. _

The fingers of both hands are dancing up Sherlock’s torso now. Palms that push the shirt open further come to rest on his chest and John’s eyes glide up the remainder of the way, drinking in his long pale neck and sharp cheekbones until John meets Sherlock’s eyes with an adoring gaze. The coach’s lips part as he feels the gravity of it and oh, how he wants. He wants to touch John and feel his body pressing back. He absolutely cannot wait another minute.

Sherlock leans forward, letting his eyes close just before his lips press against John’s. Another gentle kiss and he pulls back to look at his lover again. John looks amazing and wrecked and hungry, so hungry. His gaze darts down to Sherlock’s mouth and back up. His palms burning hot on Sherlock’s pectorals, pressed over peaked nipples. It feels exquisite. God, it feels perfect.

Sherlock swoops back in, this time with his mouth open and his tongue licking along John’s lips. The doctor parts them and the wet heat of their mouths coalesce, sharing the same breath. Their tongues slide together and Sherlock tilts John’s head with his hands on either side of John’s face to deepen the kiss. John’s fingertips dig into the skin of Sherlock’s chest, his fingers instinctively curling to grab a fistful of shirt where it has already been pushed aside. He knows just how the doctor feels. He wants to be closer, deeper, stronger. He wants to touch every inch of John’s body with his own. He wants to be on top of him again, inside him.

Surging forward, Sherlock pushes John onto his back with force, their lips never parting. John’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing the shirt off of them. Sherlock releases the doctor’s face long enough to tear the sleeves from his own arms and throw the shirt to the floor. His hands are instantly back on John’s body, holding him while they kiss and lick and suck at one another’s lips and tongues. Sherlock breaks away to mouth down John’s neck, lick, nibble and suck along his collarbones. 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John moans. His hands stroke the man’s back, gliding up his neck and tangling in his curls. “God, yes. Yes.”

Sherlock takes a nipple between his lips and sucks. He flicks with the tip of his tongue and smiles around his ministrations as John writhes beneath him.

“Shit,” John curses breathlessly while Sherlock moves to the other nipple. His hands rove over his lover’s body as he thrusts up to meet it. “Fuck. Come here. Come here now.”

His hands cup Sherlock’s face and pull him up gently, but firmly to crash their lips together again. For god knows how long, they both give and take in turn, caressing and lavishing attention on one another. Sherlock yelps when John heaves his body unexpectedly and rolls them over so his legs astride the man’s hips. His hands are in between their bodies, scrabbling at Sherlock’s belt and trousers. The coach reaches down to help, but focuses on John’s zipper instead. They each scramble to get their own trousers off, John rolling off of Sherlock to divest himself of every stitch of clothing on his body.

When they meet again, they are on their sides and kissing with passion, a frenzy of emotion each can feel down to his core. Their arms are wrapped around each other, groins rubbing frantically. Both moan at the friction and buck their hips, desperate for more. Climax is ever-present, getting closer, so close, and then Sherlock stops. He pulls away to catch his breath and looks at John with his cheeks flushed pink and lips kiss swollen. Beautiful.

“What?” John gasps, his brow already wrinkled with worry. He swallows and pants, searching Sherlock’s eyes. “What is it? Is it too much? I can slow down. We can go slow if you need to, if you need some time.”

“No,” Sherlock blurts between gasps. “I don’t want slow.”

Sherlock presses his lips together and then parts them, taking a little time to regain control of his rapid breathing. John does the same, still watching him with concern. Finally, Sherlock bites his lip and places a hand on John’s naked hip. The skin is on fire and Sherlock nearly moans at the heat of it.

“I want you,” he begins tentatively. “All of you and god, I can have you. I want...I want to be inside you.”

Sherlock finishes in a rush as if he has to sneak the words past John so he will agree before he realizes what has been said. Sherlock has never felt more nervous in all his life. No championship has ever come close to this, and he is beginning to think he has fucked everything up because John is just staring at him, agog. He isn’t even blinking.  _ Shit. Shit. _ Sherlock cringes at his own presumption and stupidity. John had mentioned this before - there’s no fucking way Sherlock could forget - but he had turned him down. Sherlock had wanted it. Of course, he did, but he had wanted John to know he loved Sherlock before they took that step, even if it meant they would never take it. Now has he ruined things by bringing it up without ever explaining himself first?

An apology on his tongue, Sherlock opens his mouth, but John speaks before he can say a word and the doctor’s words render him mute with shock.

“You would want to do that?” John’s voice is quiet and startled. “Before, you said no. I thought...you didn’t want that… with me.”

“No. No, no, no,” Sherlock cups John’s face in his hands. His voice is urgent, but soft. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant to make you feel that. I just...wanted you to know you loved me before we…” he sighs deeply and allows himself this vulnerability. “It’s important to me. I don’t just take men to bed.”

“I know. I know, and I do,” John breathes and cracks a small smile. “I love you, Sherlock. God, I love you so much.”

Sherlock grins brightly at those words, his whole face shining, and he leans in to kiss his doctor. It is only a tender brush of lips, but it starts an incredible feeling of anticipation that spreads throughout his body in seconds. When the kiss ends, Sherlock exhales a shaky breath and rests his forehead against John’s for a moment before pulling back to see his face. 

“So now the question is do you want that, John?” he asks breathlessly, nervously. He looks unflinchingly into John’s eyes and hides nothing. All of his thoughts and feelings are laid bare, exposed for John to see. His needs and desires and, above all, his love for John so deeply rooted in his soul he can no longer remember his life without it. He watches John as he sees it all and melts.

“Oh god,” John whispers in a quick gasp. “Yes. God, yes.”

That is all Sherlock needs. He dives in and kisses John to within an inch of his life. Then he trails kisses and lips and licks down John’s torso, pushing him onto his back as he goes. His lover strokes his shoulders and tangles fingers in his curls, all the while moaning soft curses and encouragement. Sherlock wiggles in between John’s legs, spreading them wide as he works his way down John’s body.

“Jesus. Oh, god,” John sighs, letting his head fall back only to jerk it up again when Sherlock licks a stripe down his shaft, tip to root, and then does not stop. “Fuck! Sherlock! What..ooohhhhh...are you doing?!”

Sherlock’s only answer is cupping John’s balls and licking across his hole. John’s whole body shudders in surprise and profound pleasure, even as he squirms to stop him.

“Sherlock,” John gasps frantically, “you don’t have to.”

Warmth that starts low in Sherlock’s belly radiates out into every corner of his body. It is a sense of arousal he can barely believe or contain. Every nerve, every damn molecule is alive with the sensation and the desire to take John apart piece by piece. 

“Do I look like I have reservations?” he asks quietly and more articulately than he expected. He looks up at John from under long, dark lashes, his face still a hair’s breadth from John’s ass.

“Oh, fuck,” John’s pupils swallow the color in his eyes and his breath stutters.

“I want all of you, John,” Sherlock repeats. “I want this. Please.”

“Oh, god. Yes. Yes,” John answers desperately. “I want it too. I want you, love you so much. You’re perfect. You’re…”

The words die in John’s throat as Sherlock spreads his cheeks to lick at first and then thrust his tongue in, licking a circle around the tight heat. John cries out and squirms, helpless to desire and pleasure. Sherlock continues thrusting in and out, licking and mouthing. He takes turns with his mouth and lubed fingers as he works John open. All the while John writhes and curses and tugs lightly at Sherlock’s curls.

When he is satisfied with his work, Sherlock buries his tongue one last time and wiggles it before thrusting once more. His intention is a final gesture that opens the door to more, but it proves to be too much for the doctor and John’s body suddenly jerks beneath him. Uncontrollable spasms rack John’s body and he is cursing loudly, his head thrown back. John is coming hard, his penis straining against its own skin and completely untouched. Sherlock feels a tinge of regret at that, but knows there will be more opportunities to explore. Instead, he kisses John’s thighs and uses his fingers to ride it out, brushing John’s prostate with a feather-soft touch and John comes again with a sudden spurt onto his own belly.

“Fuck!” he shouts, gasping for breath and clenching his fists in the sheets. He rasps on breathlessly as the orgasm ebbs. “Oh, fuck. God. Fuck. Sherlock.”

John pants heavy and deep as he opens his eyes to look at Sherlock. He swallows hard around great gulps of air and wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand before reaching for the lanky coach.

“Goddamn, Sherlock,” John’s voice is hoarse and cracking under the weight of his rapid breaths. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, get inside me. I want you now. I want your cock.”

Obliging instantly and nearly bursting, Sherlock lines them up and pushes in slowly, sending a moan from both their lips. Thank god they’re both clean, he has no patience for a condom right now. Fighting his own body and most of his mind, he carefully pulls out a bit and slowly pushes back in. He does not want to hurt John by being too enthusiastic, though he quickly sees that he needn’t have worried. John’s body is more than ready and apparently, so is John. The doctor grabs Sherlock’s hips with both hands and thrust hard, tearing a loud cry of ecstasy from Sherlock’s lips. With stars already in his vision, he meets John’s blown eyes and is greeted with lust and desperation.

“Ride me,” John demands. “Take me. Take me hard.”

With those words, Sherlock loses all control. He knows he isn’t going to last long after all of John’s cries and spectacular release, so he works quickly. He thrusts into John hard again and again, stopping suddenly with his tip against John’s prostate and a curse on John’s lips.

“Fuck! Fucking yes. Yes!” John’s hands are gripping Sherlock’s hips, his body tense and slick with sweat and meeting his thrusts perfectly. 

Sherlock loses all sense of space and time, always hitting that spot with each new thrust. John’s arms fly up, his fingers clutching and scratching at Sherlock’s shoulders and arms, anywhere he can gain purchase. Before long, Sherlock slows his pace, knowing it is coming soon. A hot, spiraling surge of pleasure coils in his belly and every bit of him tenses deliciously as he chases his release. Its rings burst apart in an explosion of heat and wet and rapture, and Sherlock is completely taken apart by the force of it. He shouts and thrusts and twitches, joy and sensation swallowing him whole and drawing him down deep into a part of his mind palace he has never seen before, some of it being built right before his eyes. He had already made a whole wing for John, but this is different. This is their space. Every detail designed for the two of them, to hold every feeling they experience together and hold every memory they make. The first to find quarters in this new place is John’s face, as well as Sherlock’s, the moment he said ‘I love you. Sherlock, I love you’.

Those are the words Sherlock hears when he opens his eyes. He is lying on his back on the soft warmth of his bed. John is hunched over him, looking into his eyes with undisguised concern. Sherlock blinks a few times in confusion, trying to get his bearings and decipher what has happened. He must have lost himself too completely in his mind palace and toppled over onto John, who then rolled him onto his back.

“John?” Sherlock croaks, his throat rough and dry.

“Sherlock, thank god,” John’s voice is full of equal parts worry and relief as he touches Sherlock’s damp brow and cheeks. “Your pulse is too fast. Just breathe. Slowly now. Try to slow it down.”

Obeying the doctor without question, Sherlock concentrates and breathes measurably until his body resumes its normal rhythm. John presses two fingers to his neck and counts out his pulse. Happy with his findings, he lets out a long sigh and smiles.

“There we are. Just too carried away for a minute there,” he brushes a curl from Sherlock’s forehead. “Nothing to worry about.”

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat at the soft affection of the touch and he smiles up at his lover. He starts to sit up, reaching for John as he goes, but John stops him with a firm hand on each bicep.

“Wait, wait,” he pushes him down and then laughs at the petulant frown on Sherlock’s face. “We need to get cleaned up, that’s all. Don’t get stroppy, all right?”

He hops off the bed, grabbing a random sock off the floor and holding it to his own belly to keep the mess covering his torso from smearing or dripping as he hurries to the master bath. Sherlock hears water running as he looks down at himself. His groin is slick with lube and saliva and semen. The sight of it gives him the most ridiculous sense of satisfaction and contentment. He inhales deeply and lets it out slowly while stretching his whole body luxuriously like a cat lying in the warm light of the sun.

“Here’s a flannel,” John says upon his return, offering Sherlock a damp washcloth. He takes it, a blank look on his face. John adds with a crooked smile. “To wash off.”

“I know what it’s for,” Sherlock snaps irritably, more so than he intended. He softens his tone again to continue. “But what did you call it?”

“A flannel,” John replies simply. “What do you call it?”

“A washcloth. Obvious. That’s what it is,” Sherlock supplies with a grin and stifled giggle. John narrows his eyes and swats Sherlock’s leg playfully.

“Just clean up, you tosser.”

“Tosser? Oh, that’s a new one,” Sherlock teases, rolling toward the doctor. “Tell me what that one means.”

He reaches out quickly to grab John’s wrist and pull him back into bed, but the man is too quick, just dodging his outstretched fingers. After a couple of jogged steps, John slows to a walk and heads for the bathroom again, still completely naked. Sherlock’s lips curl up as he watches that ass tip from side to side with the natural swing of John’s hips. He also can’t miss the fact that John’s left hand is behind his back, middle finger raised in a rude gesture for Sherlock to see. The coach laughs as John turns in the doorway to look at him.

“Piss off,” John remarks with no venom. His grin lights the room and Sherlock feels like he is home, but like no other he has ever known. Wherever this man is, is home and Sherlock never wants to be anywhere else again. 

“I’m going to shower,” John informs him, assuming a business-like tone. Sherlock watches him slyly, knowing he is putting it on. “If you can stop all the teasing, you can join me.”

“Why should I stop? I rather enjoy it,” Sherlock gives him a cheeky grin and eyes John with approval. Not giving him a chance to answer the question, Sherlock raises the washcloth to punctuate his next question. “Why bother with this if you’re going to shower?”

“So you aren’t such a sticky mess when I snog you senseless,” John chooses to answer only the last question. He turns away and gives a swish of his ass as he looks over his shoulder. “Coming?”

Sherlock is frozen for a moment after John disappears into the other room. His eyes are wide and mouth hanging open, in spite of himself. His life is forever changed by the beautiful, wonderful man in his bathroom. **Their** bathroom. Sherlock looks at the washcloth in his hand, down at himself and then back to the doorway that once held John. A smile spreads across his face as he muses at how this could even be possible. Only a few months ago, things were so different. He was happy, but now… His lobster.

Sherlock springs into motion with the sound of water bursting from the shower head. He quickly wipes himself up as best he can in a rush and runs for the open door, steam already drifting out from within. He wraps his arms around John’s waist soundly as soon as he enters and presses a kiss to one firm shoulder blade. John is under the spray with his eyes closed, arms raised and hands skimming over his wet hair. He smiles fondly, wipes the water from his eyes and face, and lowers his hands to rest upon the taller man’s. Sherlock props his chin on John’s shoulder. 

“Hello, beautiful,” John says, tilting his head down to look at their joined hands. 

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers, his lips millimeters from John’s ear. He tightens his hold and kisses John’s neck gently.

***

An hour later and they are both settling into bed again. John is on his back with Sherlock just lying down next to him. He folds his arm around the taller man as Sherlock rests his cheek on John’s bare shoulder. Both elected to put on boxer briefs rather than pajamas and John revels in pure delight at the decision. Although, part of him wonders why they put anything on at all. Clearly something to be rectified in the future. In the meantime, Sherlock’s bare legs tangle with his and the warm, naked chest pressed up against his body is heavenly. With a sigh, John rests his hand on the man’s pale skin, inclining his head to touch it to his lover’s crown. The soft, dark curls tickle his cheek as he rests it against them. His fingers move up from the small of Sherlock’s back to the nape of his neck to play with those gorgeous curls, fingertips twisting in the damp rings and freeing tiny droplets.

John opens his mouth to speak, but a wave of realization crashes over him instead. His lover.  **His** lover.  **His** . This is his flat now. The one  **he** shares with Sherlock. Well, as soon as he moves things out of his current flat and into this one. He and Sherlock will be together now. Forever. That’s what Sherlock wants and the more John thinks about it, the more he wants it too. To be by Sherlock’s side. To talk to him and touch him and share a bed with him. To  **be** with him always. Christ, it’s amazing. Life with Sherlock. In this world, in this flat. The two of them against the world. It nearly takes his breath away. He must have moved or gasped or something at the thought because Sherlock tilts his face toward John’s and looks at him with curious eyes. 

“All right?” he asks in a deep voice, a sexy purr to John’s ears. A blissful grin spreads across John’s face as that delightful warm feeling pools low in his belly again.

“Yeah,” John answers, smoothing down the curls he twisted into tight ringlets. “I’m good. Perfect, in fact.”

“That is a gross exaggeration,” Sherlock laughs, his body shaking with it. John chuckles with him and shoves at his shoulder.

“It feels perfect then,” John corrects himself. “Is that better?”

“Mm, yes, but still highly subjective,” the taller man teases. “I would expect a man of science to be more methodical and draw conclusions based upon serious analysis.”

“How do you know I haven’t?” John asks, mimicking Sherlock’s haughtiness. He knows for a fact that Sherlock knows exactly what he is doing, but he does not let on. Instead, he simply watches John with narrowed eyes, his mouth curled smugly. “You don’t spend every hour of every day and night with me.”

“I will now,” Sherlock’s lips grow into the grin of a cheshire cat. A gleam flashes in his eyes. “ **Especially** at night.”

John leans down and catches his mouth in a rather insistent kiss. He wants to tell Sherlock so much, everything that is in his heart. He pours it all into this kiss, wanting and willing Sherlock to understand, to see it all without John saying a single word. He knows he cannot get away with that and doesn’t really want to. He has to say it, wants to say it again and again for the rest of his life. All of his days with Sherlock,  **and** nights, as Sherlock reminded him.

John shivers and brings the kiss to an end. Looking into Sherlock’s grey eyes, John sees that understanding. Sherlock knows all and sees all. He’s too damn clever for his own good and John absolutely adores him for it.

“I’m counting on it,” John says quietly. His hand drifts along Sherlock’s collarbone to his long neck. He dances his fingertips up the pale skin to jawline and chin, resting his palm over an angular cheek as he speaks. “D’you know this is our first night in  **our** bed?”

“The thought had occurred, yes,” Sherlock gives a decisive nod. “We have already christened it in the physical sense, and now the emotional,” he looks at John with a knowing expression. “Sentiment.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” John wriggles down a little so his face is closer to Sherlock’s. “Billy mentioned you’re no good with that.”

“Did he?” Sherlock smiles ruefully. “He is not wrong. Although, I would like to think I’ve made some progress on that front.”

“You have,” John replies in a measured tone, but wearing a wide grin on his face.

“Under the appropriate tutelage, of course,” Sherlock continues, nonreactive to John’s jest.

“And you found a true expert to teach you too,” John adds cheekily. “A master of the craft.”

Sherlock snorts at that and John immediately joins in, both unable to hold it in any longer.

“At least I finally got my shit together,” John remarks when the sound of their giggles dies down.

“Indeed,” Sherlock chuckles, resting his palm on John’s chest and lifting his head to look him in the eye, “and I am deeply grateful.”

“Sherlock,” John says with a sudden seriousness that surprises even him. He sees it reflected back in the coach’s expression and rushes to speak before Sherlock’s big brain can start conjuring doubts. “I was stupid. I made myself so blind I couldn’t see what was right in front of me, but I do now.”

He pauses to wet his lips and gathers his courage for what he wants to say next. He expects it to be difficult and then he realizes that it isn’t hard at all. Saying this, declaring his feelings, feels like the most natural thing he has ever done. Everything is with Sherlock.

“I love you, Sherlock and I’m going to spend my whole life telling you and showing you just how much. It all starts here in this bed, in this flat, right now,” John tells him sincerely, covering those long fingers on his chest with his own. “I love you and I want to tell everyone. I want to shout it from the goddamn rooftops.”

They both laugh again for a moment. Still wearing a soft smile, John meets Sherlock’s eyes and touches a hand to his cheek. His fingers cradle the smooth skin and he slides his thumb over one beautiful cheekbone, capturing this moment so he can hold onto it forever.

“My life is yours,” John says simply in a quiet voice, “for as long as you want it.”

Sherlock’s lips curve upward and he looks at John with tears in his eyes. He shifts up John’s body until they are shoulder to shoulder and cups John’s face with both hands. Gazing into blue eyes, Sherlock leans toward his doctor and kisses him softly, sweetly, in a way he will repeat over and over again as the years drift by.

“And mine is yours,” he says in a hushed voice.

They share a kiss so deep, so honest and open, one that tells them both so much that they can scarcely catch their breath when their lips part.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers against John’s lips.

“I love you,” John breathes back. 

Their words, breaths, and lives mingle together to create one. 

They rest their foreheads together and sigh, sharing in the perfect silence of the room. Their own breathing, now coming in identical puffs, is the only noise in the air around them. They both settle into bed again, heads ensconced in pillows and arms enfolding one another. 

John’s eyes grow heavy quickly and he almost does not notice when Sherlock drifts off, but the coach gives himself away when he snuffles quietly and snuggles close. John smiles to himself as his eyes close, ready now for sleep to come. In the last ten nights, his last thought before his brain passes into its rest cycle has been of The Crown and his rescue. The dreams that follow rule his sleep as they show him the different ways it could have played out. 

More often than not, the dreams have had an alternate ending in which things went poorly. One night when he, Sherlock and Greg were all in DC to meet with the Board the dream ended with Sherlock dead. He had drowned trying to untie the ropes that had bound John to the weights and John was left staring into his unseeing grey eyes as he floated away motionless. John had startled awake that night, covered with sweat. He was so shaken that he had thrown on a hotel bathrobe over his pajamas, gone straight down the hall to Sherlock’s room and rang his mobile until the man awoke. John had wrapped his arms around him as soon as he opened the door with a startled ‘John, what is it?’

John has never explained the dreams to Sherlock and Sherlock has not asked. John will tell him at some point, but not now when it is still so fresh. Soon though. 

As for tonight, it seems like it should be no different and yet, it is. Here, in their bed on the first night of their life together, John’s last thought before falling asleep is completely different and the dreams he has open a new world of wonder and excitement.

_ Sherlock was brilliant at finding clues. Ones I left and ones I didn’t even realize. He could be a detective in his free-time, as if we have any of that to spare. _

John’s mouth turns up at the corners slightly and a sleepy snicker passes through his lips as he pulls Sherlock closer.

_ A consulting detective. Mm, I should tell...him...that. _

El Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said it all at the beginning, but I will again. Thank you all for being with me as I edited and posted my way through this. Your love and support means the world to me. All of you are my treasured friends on and after this journey. This story has a special place in my heart for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is meeting my lovely beta, MyBreadAndButter. Thank you, my friend. You have help me shape this story and my craft into something truly great. I look forward to working with you, and to seeing all of you again, which leads me to...Questions Time?
> 
> 1\. But Jane, what questions can there be? The story is over.  
> 2\. Will there be a sequel? (asked with narrow eyes)  
> 3\. What is coming next for these two lovebirds?   
> 4\. Another epic tale, AU, or a shorter story?
> 
> I will only answer the last. I'm thinking through my many ideas for the next story, but am writing a oneshot in the meantime. It is my first and I hope it actually turns out to be fairly short, and still makes sense. As you all know, I can be pretty wordy. Lol. What, me? Plain Jane?? Surely not. Bahahaha! 
> 
> Goodbye, my friends. It's such a hard thing to say. I hope we will meet again. I will never stop writing. It is a part of me as much as you and these two idiots are. Keep an eye out for me because i'll be back. I pledge to make our boys fall in love again and again with you all by my side. 😂 Until then… Keep you pants dry and your dreams wet and remember, hugs not drugs. We’ll all get through this together.   
> Love, Jane


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